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Title: The Rose of Old St. Louis

Author: Mary Dillon

Illustrator: J. André Castaigne
        C. M. Relyea

Release date: March 26, 2007 [eBook #20911]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Audrey Longhurst, Diane Monico, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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THE ROSE OF OLD ST. LOUIS

by

MARY DILLON

With Illustrations by André Castaigne and C. M. Relyea







[Illustration: "'Very well, I shall expect to hear from you'"]


[Illustration]


New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

Copyright, 1904, by
The Century Co.
Published July, 1904
Reprinted July, 1904, August, 1904,
September, 1904, October, 1904,
December, 1904, January, 1906,
February, 1907




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                                 PAGE

I      I MAKE MY BOW IN CAHOKIA                           3

II     I PROPOSE A TOAST                                 17

III    I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE                        31

IV     I MAKE AN ENGAGEMENT                              44

V      I GO TO A PICNIC ON CHOUTEAU'S POND               55

VI     WHIPPOORWILLS                                     79

VII    I TWINE CHRISTMAS GREENS                          92

VIII   I GO TO MIDNIGHT MASS                            104

IX     MADAME CHOUTEAU'S BALL                           119

X      LA GUIGNOLÉE                                     135

XI     CHOISSEZ LE ROI                                  147

XII    A MIDNIGHT FRAY                                  157

XIII   "A PRETTY BOY!"                                  168

XIV    A CREOLE LOVE-SONG                               181

XV     "AU REVOIR"                                      203

XVI    A VIRGINIA FARMER                                212

XVII   A GREAT DEBATE                                   225

XVIII  A MAGIC COACH                                    245

XIX    CHECK TO THE ABBÉ!                               266

XX     BONAPARTE GIVES ENGLAND A RIVAL                  281

XXI    A TEMPEST IN A BATH-TUB                          308

XXII   MR. MONROE ARRIVES!                              328

XXIII  THE CONSUL'S SENTENCE                            338

XXIV   A NEW CHEVALIER OF FRANCE                        363

XXV    THE COMTESSE DE BALOIT SENDS FOR HER HUNTER      375

XXVI   THE CONSUL'S COMMISSION                          386

XXVII  "GOOD-BY, SWEETHEART!"                           397

XXVIII EXIT LE CHEVALIER                                414

XXIX   UNDER THE OLD FLAG                               426

XXX    THE ROSE OF ST. LOUIS                            448




ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                       PAGE

"'Very well, I shall expect to hear from you'"      Frontispiece

"In solitary dignity stood Black Hawk"                  152

"He stopped and turned suddenly to the two ministers"   295

The Signing of the Louisiana Purchase Treaty by
  Marbois, Livingston, and Monroe                       370




FOREWORD


My story does not claim to be history, but in every important
historical detail it is absolutely faithful to the records of the
times as I have found them. Every word of the debate in Congress,
every word of Marbois, Livingston, Decrés, Napoleon, and his two
brothers on the subject of the Louisiana Cession is verbatim from the
most authentic accounts. I am indebted for the historical part of my
story to Gayarré's "History of Louisiana," to Martin's "History of
Louisiana," to James K. Hosmer's "History of the Louisiana Purchase,"
to Lucien Bonaparte's "Memoirs," to numerous lives of Napoleon,
Jefferson, Talleyrand, and others, and particularly to Marbois
himself, whose account of the negotiations on the subject of the
cession is preserved in his own handwriting in the St. Louis
Mercantile Library.

As to the local color of old St. Louis, both in its topographical
setting and in its customs, I have also tried to be exact. And here I
am very largely indebted to that simple and charming old writer, H.
M. Brackenridge, in his "Recollections of the West" and in his "Views
of Louisiana"; and also to Timothy Flint in his "Recollections"; to J.
Thomas Scharf's interesting "History of St. Louis," and especially to
Mr. Frederic L. Billon, St. Louis's historian _par eminence_. I make
also the same claim for exactness as to the local color of Washington
at that early day; for which I have made so many gleanings in many
fields--a little here, a little there--that it seems hardly worth
while to give special credit to each.

In non-essential points I have occasionally taken the liberty
belonging to a writer of fiction, having condensed into one several
debates in Congress, as well as several interviews between Talleyrand
and Livingston, and two interviews between Bonaparte and Marbois.

Nor have I hesitated to use the names of the early St. Louis settlers,
because they are names still well known and honored in the city which
they helped to found. I have touched upon them but lightly, and have
tried to make those touches true to the characters of those estimable
gentlemen and gentlewomen of the old French régime.

            MARY DILLON.




THE ROSE OF
OLD ST. LOUIS




THE ROSE OF OLD ST. LOUIS




CHAPTER I

I MAKE MY BOW IN CAHOKIA

    "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
          Gang aft a-gley."


"And this is the village of St. Louis, sir?"

I bowed respectfully to my captain standing in the prow of the boat
and looking across an expanse of swirling muddy water to the village
on the bluffs beyond. I spoke more after the manner of making polite
conversation than because I was desirous of information, for I knew
without asking that it could be none other.

My captain answered me: "Yes, my lad, yonder is St. Louis, and this is
De Soto's river; what dost think of it?"

"I think, sir, 'tis a great river, though not so clear a stream as the
Delaware, and muddier even than the Ohio."

I spoke calmly, but my heart was beating fast, and I could feel the
blood rushing through my veins. I had been ill with what the boatmen
call river fever, and had lain in the bottom of the boat wrapped in
my blanket, alternately shivering with chills and burning with fever,
oblivious to all about me, so that I had not known when we swept out
of the Ohio into the Mississippi, past Fort Massac, nor when we had
tied up at Kaskaskia for a long rest.

We had landed late the evening before at Cahokia, and been most
hospitably entertained by Mr. Gratiot. There had been a great banquet
in honor of Captain Clarke, with dancing far into the night, and many
guests from St. Louis. I, being still an invalid, had been put to bed
in Mr. Gratiot's beautiful guest-chamber, and given a hot posset that
put me to sleep at once, though not so soundly but that I could
dreamily catch occasional strains of the fiddles and the rhythmic
sound of feet on the waxed walnut, and many voices and much laughter.

Had I been well, it would have vexed me sore not to have been able to
lead in the minuet one of the beauties of Cahokia, whose fame had
reached even my distant home in Philadelphia, for I had been carefully
trained in the steps and the figures, and was young enough to be proud
of my skill in the dance. But feeling ill as I did, the sounds of
revelry combined with the posset only to soothe me into a heavy
slumber.

I woke in the early dawn to find Yorke, Captain Clarke's big black,
standing beside my bed, with a bowl of smoking gruel. He showed a
formidable array of white ivory as he grinned amiably in response to
my questioning look:

"Mars' Gratiot send you de gruel wid his complimen's, sah, and he and
de capen bofe say you's not to git up dis mohnen, sah."

Yorke always considered that to state a request of "de capen" was
sufficient to insure compliance. He could not dream of any one setting
his authority at naught. With me, too, Captain Clarke's authority was
paramount. It had only been by a promise of absolute submission to
that authority that I had persuaded my kinsman in Kentucky to allow me
to accompany the captain on his mission to the governor of Illinois at
St. Louis.

So, when Yorke said the captain had ordered me to remain in bed, I
thought for a moment I would have to obey; but having swallowed the
hot gruel, into which Yorke had put a modicum of good Orleans ratafia,
I was straightway infused with new spirit (I meant not that for wit),
and such strength flowed through my limbs as I had not felt for days.

"Yorke," I said, springing out of bed with a haste that made me
light-headed for a moment, "help me into my clothes, and be quick
about it; I think I hear sounds below that betoken getting ready for
departure."

Even as I spoke I ran to a stand on which stood a basin and a small
ewer of water. I filled the basin, and plunged my head into the icy
water. I drew it out, sputtering and shivering, and, seizing a towel,
gave my head and neck and hair so vigorous a rubbing that I did not
see Yorke slip out of the room. When I turned to speak to him I found
him gone, afraid either of being a partner in my disobedience to the
captain, or of being left behind if he delayed longer.

Left to myself, I did my best to hurry with my clothing. I had not
much experience in dressing myself, but I had been compelled to leave
behind me in Philadelphia the black boy who had never before, since I
could remember, been absent from me a day. I had been eager enough to
part with him, thinking it ill befitted a soldier of fortune, as I
intended to be, to be coddled by a valet, and I had not missed him
much, for Yorke had been always ready to lend a helping hand when I
needed it. Now I was of a mind to curse the vanity that had led me to
fit myself out with doeskins that were of so snug a cut they needed
much tugging to get into them, and with endless lacings with which my
awkward fingers, clumsier than ever from the icy water and the
trembling the fever had left me in, fumbled desperately.

But I was ready at last, and seizing my sword-belt in one hand and my
hat in the other, I started with hot haste for the door, fearing I
might be, after all, too late. As I opened it, a sound smote my ears
that struck terror to my heart: the voices and the laughter of young
maidens. I stepped back involuntarily. I had not thought of the
possibility of meeting any one at that early hour but my host and my
captain, and I had not given a thought to my appearance. Now I took an
anxious survey of myself in the small French mirror that hung above
the stand. I was vexed beyond measure at what I saw.

"They will take me for a girl," I muttered between my teeth, "and
flout me accordingly."

It had ever been a source of extreme mortification to me that I should
have rosy cheeks like any maiden's, but now, owing to the hard
scrubbing I had given them, they were all aflame, and their color was
heightened by the pallor my recent illness had given to brow and
temples. My hair, from its wetting, was curling in ringlets all around
my head. I seized a brush and tried desperately to reduce them to
straightness, but the brushing served only to bring out in stronger
relief the glint of gold that I despised, and certainly my eyes had
never looked more blue and shining.

"They will think me a girl or a baby!" I muttered once more, and was
in such disgust with myself I was ready to go back to bed. But
bethinking me that would only leave me the longer in this House of
Dames, I seized my belt once more, buckled it on with a vicious
twitch, and strode boldly to the door.

There I stopped a moment to collect all my courage, soothing myself
with the reflection that I stood a good six feet in my moccasins, and
though I carried no superfluous flesh, my shoulders were as broad as
my captain's and my muscles like whip-cords. Fortified by these
considerations, I strode on boldly to the landing at the head of the
wide staircase leading down to the great hall.

There I stopped again; for while the landing was in gloom, the hall
was brilliantly illuminated by a roaring, blazing lightwood fire,
looking cheery enough in the gray light of the frosty morning, and
throwing into strong relief two groups on either side of the
fireplace. On one side stood my captain, evidently ready for a start,
and making his adieus to his host. I glanced eagerly at Mr. Gratiot
and at the elderly man who stood beside him, who, I thought, was
likely to be none other than Mr. Francis Vigo. I had heard much of
these two men from General George Rogers Clarke, whose lonely retreat
on the Ohio I had often visited during my stay in Kentucky. They had
been General Clarke's best friends and helpers in the early days of
the war, when he had made that daring attack on Vincennes, and I knew
Captain Clarke's mission to St. Louis had something to do with
discharging his brother's obligation to them. They were smaller men
than my captain, of a slender, graceful build, and the hair of both
was quite white, but from my post of observation I could see that they
were men of courtly manners, well used to the ways of the world, and
talking now quite eagerly with all the wealth of gesture and
expression natural to Frenchmen.

The firelight played strongly on the face of my captain, whom I had
already begun to adore, as did every one who came into close
companionship with him. I gazed admiringly at his broad, white brow,
clear-cut features, and firmly knit figure, a little square of build,
but looking every inch the frontier soldier in his leathern doublet
and leggings and high-laced moccasins. Over one shoulder he had thrown
his blue military cloak, for the trip across the river promised to be
a cold one, and he carried in his hand a hat with a drooping plume. I
wondered if the merry group of girls on the other side of the
fireplace was not impressed by such a handsome and soldierly stranger,
and a bachelor to boot. I thought I could detect an occasional
conscious glance in his direction and a furtive preening of skirts and
fluttering of fans, that betokened they were not insensible to the
presence of the brave captain.

There were six of the young maidens, and all but two of them were in
ball costume; flowered silks, and arms and shoulders gleaming white
through fine lace, powdered hair, and patches and paint, they might
have stepped out of a Philadelphia ball-room, I thought, and was
astonished at the thought. I had not expected to find court beauties
on the frontier, yet the Chouteaus, the Gratiots, and the Papins were
names I had often heard in my own home as men of wealth and vast
emprise.

The six girls were chatting gaily in French, and I was so absorbed in
my contemplation of them that I did not at first consider the
strangeness of their appearance in that costume so early in the
morning. When it did occur to me, I concluded the four must have come
over from St. Louis to attend the ball and had no other dress to
return in, and the other two were doubtless Mr. Gratiot's daughters,
which I learned afterward was the true explanation.

But now bethinking me it was high time to make my descent, and running
quickly over in my mind the way to make it most effective,--for I
wished to bear myself bravely before the young maidens,--I determined
to place my left hand on the hilt of my sword, to hold my hat, which
also bore a sweeping plume, in my right hand pressed close to my
heart, and with head held high and borne a little backward, to descend
with the stately minuet step. I flattered myself that with such a
manner as I felt sure I could assume those saucy maidens would forget
my rosy cheeks and my curls and think only of my air of _grand
seigneur_.

I glanced down to see that my costume was all right, and now I was
glad that my doeskins fitted so perfectly, even if they were hard to
get into in a hurry, that my high moccasins were so beautifully and
elaborately beaded in purple and yellow, with broad slashes of fringe
falling from the tops of them, and that my leathern doublet sat so
well, as my peep into the mirror had convinced me it did.

As I started down, feeling well satisfied with my costume, yet
trembling inwardly at the thought of the array of bright eyes I was to
encounter, my glance fell on an untied lacing at one knee. I stooped
to retie it, and at that moment heard what seemed to me the sweetest
voice I had ever listened to, call:

"À moi, Leon, à moi," followed by a clear, soft whistle.

I was still clumsily fumbling with my lacers (my fingers have ever
been all thumbs when there is any dainty task to be performed) when I
heard a rush of soft, padded feet, and down the corridor behind me, in
response to that clear whistle, bounded a great dog. Through the arch
that my bent limbs made in stooping he saw the glow of the firelight
from below and made straight for it. But alas! the arch was narrower
than he thought, and dog and man went rolling and tumbling down the
staircase, bumping and bounding from stair to stair, a wild mêlée of
doeskin legs and shaggy paws and clanging sword and wildly brandished
arms, making vain clutches at the air to stay the headlong descent.

Deep-mouthed yelps voiced the terror of the dog at this unexpected
Sindbad who refused to be shaken off. No words could voice the
overwhelming shame of the man at this unmannerly presentation of
himself before a group of young maidens, when so dignified an entrance
had been planned.

As we struck the polished walnut of the hall floor, I disentangled
myself and sprang to my feet, where I stood, scarlet with shame, head
drooping, a pitiable object indeed. There had been an amazed, and
perhaps on the maidens' side a terrified, silence during our noisy
descent. Now from the maidens there arose first a suppressed giggle
and then an irresistible peal of laughter, joined to the hearty
guffaws of the men. My shame was fast giving place to rising wrath, in
no degree appeased by the consciousness of the spectacle I presented.
The dog, a magnificent mastiff, by that time recovering from his
confusion, and feeling as keenly as I, no doubt, the derogation of his
dignity, and, with a dog's unreason, regarding me as the agent of his
humiliation when I was in fact the victim of his own stupidity, sprang
at me with a vicious growl.

Here was an occasion to vent my boiling wrath. Quick as thought my
sword sprang from its sheath and came down flat-sided with a ringing
blow on the brute's head. I have ever been a merciful man to all
beasts, and dogs and horses I have loved and they have loved me; and
even in my wrath and the quick necessity of defense I remembered to
use the flat of my sword; yet such is the strength of my sword-arm
from much practice, increased, I fear, by a venom instigated by those
silvery peals of laughter, that I bowled the brute over as easily as
if he had been a ninepin.

With a howl of mingled rage and pain he recovered himself instantly
and crouched to spring upon me once more, with such bloodthirst in his
eyes that I saw now I would have to defend myself in earnest. But as
he was almost in the act of springing, from among the group of maidens
there rushed what seemed to my dazzled vision a small whirlwind of
satins and laces and velvets and jewels, and flung itself upon the dog
with a ringing cry of "À bas, Leon! tais-toi, mon ange!"

The brute yielded obedience at once to the restraining arm and tones
of command, though still regarding me with vicious eyes and uttering
threatening growls.

As for me, I stood as if turned to stone, still in an attitude of
defense, the weight of my body thrown forward on the right foot, the
hilt of my sword pressed against my breast, the point presented to
receive the onslaught of the brute. In that attitude I stood frozen,
for never had I beheld such a vision of loveliness. The arm that
encircled the shaggy neck of the dog was bare almost to the shoulder,
the sleeve of finest lace having fallen back in the energy of her
action, and never have I seen an arm so white, so round, or tapering
so finely to the slender wrist and exquisite little hand clutching a
lock of Leon's mane. Masses of wavy dark hair were drawn loosely back
from a brow of dazzling whiteness into a cluster of soft curls on top
of the head, where it seemed to be caught by a jeweled aigret, which
yet permitted tiny ringlets to escape about the temples and the nape
of the snowy neck. She had thrown herself with such abandon on the
dog, and was holding him with such exertion of strength, that the
narrow skirt of her satin gown, flowered in palest pink and silver,
revealed every line of a most exquisite figure down to the little foot
extending backward from her skirts and showing the high arch of the
instep in its stocking of embroidered silk.

I had gazed with impunity, for the drooping white lids and the long,
dark lashes sweeping the perfect curve of the cheek showed all her
looks were for the dog, to whom she incessantly murmured in French
mingled words of command and endearment. But suddenly she lifted her
little head and flung it proudly back, with such a blaze of
indignation and scorn in her dark eyes I felt withered under it. The
scarlet curve of her lips fell away to disclose two rows of pearly
teeth, close set, and through them, with a vicious snap, came the one
word:

"Bête!"

I could not for a moment think that the word was meant for the dog,
and such a rage slowly welled in my veins as restored me at once to
my self-command. I dropped the point of my sword to the floor and
straightened myself to as proud a pose as hers.

"I pray you pardon, Mademoiselle," I said haughtily. The words were
meek enough, but not the tone nor the manner, and so enraged was I
that I hesitated not a moment over my French. My accent, I knew, was
good, for, my aunt having married Monsieur Barbé Marbois, I was thrown
much with French people; but I had been ever careless of my grammar,
and in a moment of less excitement I might have hesitated in venturing
on the native tongue of so fair a creature. But now my French poured
from me in an angry torrent:

"I pray you pardon. Danger alone is my excuse. I do not doubt a dog is
worth much more to Mademoiselle than the life of an American
gentleman. I make you, Mademoiselle, my compliments and my excuses."

Then returning my sword to its scabbard with an angry ring, I made her
a low and sweeping bow of ironical courtesy and strode hotly from the
room. I was in such a tumult of rage and mortification that not until
I reached the landing on the banks of Cahokia Creek, where the boats
were tied and the men busily making ready for the departure, did I
bethink me that I had left the house without a word of adieus or
thanks to my host for his courtesy. I began to fear that my sense of
self-respect would compel my return, and rather would I have faced a
battalion of the British than another flash from those dark eyes; nor
could I hope to make another so masterly a retreat as I plumed myself
this one had been. But as I glanced back toward the house on the
bluffs that had proved my undoing, to my intense relief I saw that the
three gentlemen had followed not far behind me and were even now
descending the pathway to the creek. I hastened to meet them and make
my apologies.

A more courteous gentleman than Mr. Gratiot I never met. He spoke very
good English indeed, his accent I believe not so good as my French
one, but his grammar much better.

"My dear young gentleman, you acquitted yourself nobly," he was kind
enough to say. "In the eyes of the young ladies, if I may possibly
except Mademoiselle Pelagie, you are a hero. But they are much
chagrined that you should have left them without giving them a chance
to express their sympathy or their admiration."

The sound of those silvery peals of laughter was too vividly in my
remembrance to permit me to accept Mr. Gratiot's compliments without a
large grain of allowance for a Frenchman's courtesy, but I bowed low
in seeming to accept them. Then he introduced me to his companion, who
proved not to be Mr. Vigo after all, but Dr. Saugrain, the French
émigré so renowned for his learning. I looked at him keenly as I made
my bow, for I had heard something of him in Philadelphia, and in
Kentucky there had been so many tales of the wonderful things he could
do that I think most people looked upon him as a dealer in black arts.
But he was in no respect my idea of a Mephisto. He was small and wiry
of build, and dressed in black small-clothes, with ruffles of finest
lace at wrist and knee.

Black silk stockings showed a well-turned calf in no whit shrunken
with age, and his silver shoe-buckles glittered with brilliants. His
hair, iron-gray and curly, was tied in a short queue with a black
satin ribbon, and beneath a rather narrow and high brow beamed two as
kindly blue eyes as it had ever been my lot to meet.

His greeting was most cordial, though there was a merry twinkle in his
eye while speaking to me that made me feel he might still be laughing
inwardly at my ridiculous descent of Mr. Gratiot's staircase. With a
very grand manner indeed, and with much use of his hands, as is the
fashion of Frenchmen, he said:

"My dear sir, it mek me mos' proud and mos' 'appy to know you. Vous
êtes véritablement un brave. Le capitaine dîne chez moi to-day; I
s'all be désolé and inconsolable if he bring not also his ver' dear
young frien'." Then, with a sudden and entire change of manner, he
laid his finger beside his nose and said in a loud whisper:

"My frien', I would not min' you kill that dog, moi! I lofe 'im not."

But while his words did not sound kind to me, who am such a lover of
dogs that nothing but the necessity of self-defense would ever make me
lift a hand against one, yet, all the time he spoke, his eyes twinkled
more merrily than ever, and I wondered at the man whose manner could
change so quickly from the grand seigneur's to that of a king's
jester, and I puzzled my brains mightily to know what his connection
with the dog could be.




CHAPTER II

I PROPOSE A TOAST

"The rose that all are praising."


"And this is the village of St. Louis, sir?"

My discomfiture, my mortification, my rage, the vision of dainty
beauty, the strange little savant--every remembrance of my brief visit
to Cahokia had been swept away by the rushing waters of the great
river of which I had read and heard so much.

My brain was teeming with tales of the Spanish adventurer De Soto; of
the French trader Joliet; of the devoted and saintly Jesuit, beloved
of the Indians, Père Marquette; and of the bold Norman La Salle, who
hated and feared all Jesuits. I saw the river through a veil of
romance that gilded its turbid waters, but it was something far other
than its romantic past that set my pulses to beating, and the blood
rushing through my veins so that I hardly heard my captain's answer,
and hardly knew what I replied to him.

Through the months of my sojourn in Kentucky there had been one
all-absorbing theme--the closing of the Mississippi to American boats
by the Spanish, and their refusal to grant us a right of deposit on
the Isle of New Orleans. Feeling had run so high that there were
muttered threats against the government at Washington.

There were two factions, each acting secretly and each numbering
thousands. One was for setting off at once down the river to capture
New Orleans and take exclusive possession of both sides of the river;
and if the government at Washington would not help them, or, still
worse, forbade them the emprise, they would set up an independent
government of the West. The other faction, inspired by secret agents
of the Spanish government, was for floating the Spanish flag and
proclaiming themselves subjects of Charles of Aragon. Spain's secret
emissaries were eloquent of the neglect of the home government in the
East, and its powerlessness to help the Westerners if it would, and it
was said they clenched their arguments with chink of Spanish gold.
Treason and patriotism, a wild indignation at wrongs unredressed, and
a wilder enthusiasm for conquest sent the blood of Kentucky to
fever-heat. Passions were inflamed until it needed but a spark from a
tinder to set them ablaze.

With me, friend and distant kinsman of the Clarkes, there was no
possibility of being touched by the taint of treason. But while it
would be treason of the blackest dye, and most abhorrent to my soul,
to submit to Spain's rule, to my young blood there could be no treason
in compelling Spain at the point of the sword to submit to our
demands. I was all for war, and when the cooler judgment of General
Clarke and his brother, my captain, prevailed to calm for a time the
wild tumult of war, I was bitterly disappointed.

Now for the first time I was beholding the river that had aroused the
mighty tempest in Kentucky, and it was not the tales of De Soto and La
Salle, of Joliet and Père Marquette, that sent the blood rushing
through my veins, but the thought that this was the mighty river
forbidden to our commerce, that the swirling brown water at my feet
was rushing down to the Spanish city on the Gulf, and I longed to be
one of an army rushing with it to secure our natural and inalienable
rights by conquest.

I knew that Captain Clarke was visiting St. Louis to make some
arrangements for his brother's debts--debts incurred principally to
Mr. Gratiot and Mr. Vigo for no benefit to himself, but in rescuing
and protecting the people of Illinois from the Indians and the
British; debts belonging of right to the government, but repudiated by
it, and left to be borne by the noble man who, almost alone, by a
heroism and genius for war unparalleled had saved all that Western
country to the Union.

I knew this was my captain's errand, yet I hoped there might be some
touching on the question of the river navigation with the Spanish
governor of St. Louis, and I had visions of returning to Kentucky and,
amid the acclaims of our fellow-citizens, announcing that Captain
Clarke, assisted by his young kinsman, had succeeded in convincing the
Spanish governor Delassus of the wrongs inflicted upon American
commerce by the unjust interdiction; that Delassus had thereupon
remonstrated with the intendant at New Orleans, and, as a result, the
river was thrown open to the Gulf, and a port of deposit granted on
the Isle of New Orleans where our merchants might store the goods they
brought down the river for sale.

It was because my brain was teeming with such sweet dreams of glory
that I answered my captain so absent-mindedly and so little to the
point. It was still so early that the low morning sun at our backs had
just begun to gild the bluffs before us. We could not have had a finer
first view of the Spanish town of which we had heard so much. High and
dry on its limestone bluffs, where no floods for which the great river
is so famous could ever reach it, it extended in a straggling line for
a mile and a half. Its dwellings, some of them of imposing size, were
embowered in trees, and, at that distance, seemed to stand in the
midst of large gardens. Behind the village rose another hill, on the
summit of which stood a fort, and from the fort, in either direction,
palisades curved around the town, interrupted at intervals by
demilunes, and terminating at the bluffs in stone towers. Behind this
second terrace the land continued to rise in a succession of terraces,
covered partly with low bushes and shrubs and partly with high, waving
woods, giving an impression of indescribable richness to the
landscape, every detail of which the level rays of the bright morning
sun brought out in strong relief. The whole made a most impressive
appearance, more like the picture of walled towns on the Rhine than
like anything I had seen in our country.

We were now so far out in the stream that the men could no longer use
their poles, and were trusting to the great sail they had spread to
catch a stiff south-eastern breeze, assisted by vigorous strokes of
their paddles, and I could see that against the swift current they
were straining every nerve and yet were steadily being borne below the
village and the landing-place.

Paddling on the Schuylkill and the Delaware was ever a favorite
pastime with me, and I doubt not I was a little proud of my skill.
Forgetting my recent illness and the weak state it had left me in, I
seized the paddle from a young fellow who seemed to me well-nigh
giving over, and unceremoniously tumbled him out of his seat into the
bottom of the boat, while I took his place. To my astonishment, I
found this was an entirely different stream from the steadily flowing
rivers of the East. My paddle was like to be snatched from my hand at
the first dip into the powerful current, and though I saved it by a
mad and desperate clutch, yet it felt like a feather in my hands, and
I saw my captain (who had witnessed my peremptory usurpation of the
paddle) trying to suppress a sly smile, while my mortified ears caught
the sound of derisive snickers behind me, and Yorke, the impudent
black, grinned openly from ear to ear.

The worst of it was, I myself could see we were losing ground more
rapidly than before. Now, I had ever a horror of owning myself beaten
(unless it were in argument, for I have no skill with words). I would
fight to the last gasp, but I would never surrender, which is
sometimes a foolish way, but more often wins victory out of defeat.
With my captain looking on, I felt that defeat even in so small a
matter would be a disgrace I could never survive. And so, admonishing
myself to keep cool, and remembering a turn of the wrist that an old
Indian had taught me in Pennsylvania, I very soon caught the trick of
the blade and found myself holding my own. Hope returned, and I
gradually put forth more and more strength, until, to my great
satisfaction, I at last saw that we were no longer drifting
down-stream, but steadily making head against the current, with fair
promise of reaching our landing-place. Then, indeed, did I feel
exultant, and such courage leaped through my veins, and so swift and
sure and strong were my strokes, that I felt I could alone, with my
single arm, bring the great boat to harbor. But for the second time
that morning was my vanity my undoing. We did indeed make the landing,
where a great concourse of people had gathered to meet us, among them
a stately Spanish don (who, I had no doubt, was the governor)
surrounded by a retinue of officers; but as the keel of our boat
grounded in the soft mud and my captain called me to come with him to
meet the governor, and I arose in my place to obey him, suddenly a
great blackness and dizziness seized me, and I knew no more until I
opened my eyes to find myself being borne, on the shoulders of four
men, up the steep bluff toward the village street. I insisted in the
most forcible terms on being put upon my feet at once, but as I spoke
in English, and the soldiers were either Spanish or creole French, my
entreaties and imprecations were lost upon them. Nor did my kicking
and pushing avail me any better; they but held me the more firmly for
my struggles. Then I called out lustily for help, and the ever-ready
Yorke (but with the grin that I had learned at times to consider
detestable) ran to my aid.

"Yorke!" I shouted to him; "make the rascals put me down this minute,
and do you, sir, shut that _domtiferous_ mouth of yours. I warn you,
sir, you grin at your peril!"

My mother had ever a horror of the oaths with which gentlemen lard
their conversation, and because I loved and honored her greatly, I had
resolved that I would never, to use her words, "sully my mouth" with
one. But often feeling the need of some more emphatic expressions than
our language provides except in the form of oaths, I had coined for
myself a small vocabulary to be used on occasions requiring great
emphasis. Since these words all began with a _d_, I had the
satisfaction of feeling that I was sufficiently emphatic without
violating the respect due my mother.

Whether it was the strangeness of the form of my imprecations or the
length of my adjective that scared Yorke, certain it is that he was
sobered at once, and with the solemnity of the Spanish don himself he
soon made the soldiers understand that they must put me down. Once on
my own feet, though I still felt a little shaky, I was able, by
availing myself of Yorke's arm, to climb the steep path leading up the
bluff, and soon found myself in the main street of the village, which
the _habitans_ called the Rue Royale.

We had come out into a large square or marketplace, filled with the
throng of people I had seen at the landing and many more, so that, as
the people surged backward and forward to get a nearer view, the whole
open space looked like a great posy-bed of many-hued flowers waving in
a summer breeze. And if St. Louis had had a foreign look to me when
viewed from a distance, still more did I feel as if I were in a
strange town in a strange land as I heard the babble of strange
tongues about me and saw the picturesque costumes of the habitans, so
unlike anything I had ever seen in Philadelphia or Kentucky. Negroes
were chattering their queer creole patois, and Indians of many nations
were gathered into groups, some of them bedizened with the cheap
finery of the stores, some of them wearing only bright-hued blankets,
but with wonderful head-dresses of eagle feathers, and all of them
looking gravely on with a curiosity as silent as that of the habitans
was noisy and babbling. The presence of so many Indians and on such
friendly terms struck me as strange, for in Kentucky there were no
such friendly relations between Indians and whites, and the presence
of so many of them would have betokened danger and caused much
uneasiness.

It thrilled me much that our coming should have made so great
excitement in the village, and doubtless my vanity would have taken
fire again if I had not known that it was my captain these people had
come to see, and not myself, of whom they had never heard. Even my
captain I knew must shine in a reflected glory, as the brother of
General George Rogers Clarke, whom the people of St. Louis worshiped
as their savior in the affair of 1780, when the Osages surprised the
men at work in the fields, and whom all the Indians of Illinois
regarded with fear and reverence as the great "Captain of the Long
Knives." Yet I could see that many of their curious glances fell on me
also, and I let go of Yorke's arm and walked steadily with my head in
the air, as befitted the friend of Captain Clarke.

We had stopped in front of a large stone building set inside a walled
inclosure. My captain, who was in advance with the governor and his
party, as he entered the inclosure turned and beckoned to Yorke and me
to follow him. The throng parted to let us through, and as we entered
the gates I saw that the governor had stopped on the wide gallery that
ran round the four sides of the building, and with a stately flourish
was bidding my captain welcome to Government House.

With Yorke close at my footsteps, I followed the governor's party
through a wide door into a great room that extended through the house
(as I could see by the open doors and windows at the rear), and that
was almost as wide as it was long, with doors opening into rooms on
both sides. Here I was presented to Governor Delassus, who received me
cordially, and who, with his dark eyes and punctilious manners, was my
idea of a Spanish don.

On either side of him stood two men who also greeted me cordially, but
without the punctiliousness of the Spaniard. They were the two
Chouteaus, Auguste and Jean Pierre. I had heard much of them, both in
Philadelphia and in Kentucky, and I found it difficult to conceal the
curiosity with which I regarded them. I had expected to find two rough
frontiersmen, somewhat after the manner of Daniel Boone or Simon
Kenyon, both of whom I had seen at General Clarke's; but they were
very far from that. Auguste, the elder, and who, almost more than his
step-father, Laclede, was the founder of St. Louis, was the graver of
the two, with keen, shrewd eyes that betokened the successful man of
business. Pierre (as everybody called the younger) looked not at all
like his brother: taller and slenderer of build, his flashing dark
eyes and gay manners must have been inherited from his father,
Laclede, for Madame Chouteau (whom I came to know very well later) was
even graver and sterner in manner than her eldest son, Auguste.

But interested as I was in meeting these men,--and there were many
others of whom I had heard, Manuel Lisa, Gabriel Cerré, Francis Vigo,
and Josef Marie Papin,--I could not resist casting many a furtive
glance toward a table set in the rear of the great room. My bowl of
gruel in the early morning had satisfied me at the time, but I was
still weak from illness and much fasting, and my hard pull at the
paddles had left me famished indeed. It was now, I was quite sure by
the sun and the shadows, nearly eleven o'clock, and I began to feel
the dizziness once more, and to be seized with a terrible fear that I
should again be overcome. It was with a great joy, therefore, that I
began to observe black servants bringing in smoking viands and
arranging them upon the table, and no words ever sounded more pleasant
in my ears than the governor's invitation to breakfast.

As we were about to sit down, my captain on the governor's right, and
I very kindly placed on his left, with Mr. Pierre Chouteau beside me,
there was a noise at the door, and Mr. Gratiot and Dr. Saugrain
entered. They were welcomed in such fashion it was easy to see they
were both prime favorites in that society. In response to my captain's
inquiries, they said they had left Cahokia very shortly after us,
bringing the young ladies over in two small boats, and the boats being
light and easily handled, they had nearly overtaken us.

At the mention of the young ladies I felt myself flush painfully, and
I almost thought the little doctor regarded me with a wicked twinkle
in his eyes. But I was not sure, and I resolutely put the thought of
them out of my mind, while I devoted myself to the more serious
matters of the table.

And, indeed, seldom has it been my lot to sit down to a more delicious
meal. It was my first taste of French cookery, and I proved then, what
I had often heard, that the French have a talent for savors and
seasonings, and for dainty service, denied to us Anglo-Saxons. It may
be, also, that my long fasting (for my light breakfast had hardly
broken my fast) added a sauce to the viands more potent than any
Frenchman's skill, for my appetite had come back with a rush, and for
the first time in many days I ate like a well man, and a very hungry
one. So well, forsooth, did I ply my knife and fork that Pierre
Chouteau could not forbear congratulating me, in his polished French
manner, on my prowess as a trencherman; at which I had the grace to
blush.

And now, having taken the edge off my hunger, I had leisure to enjoy
the swift exchange of wit and repartee flashing back and forth across
the table in mixed English, French, and Spanish. There had been many
toasts, most courteously worded and delicately drunk, for I noticed
these Frenchmen were not deep drinkers, and did not feel it necessary
to drain their glasses at every toast, as is the manner in Kentucky.
My captain's health had been drunk and he had responded with the
governor's (nor did our polite hosts forget to honor me), and the
gaiety began to grow somewhat noisy, when a youngster, who had, no
doubt, been drinking a little more than was good for him, sprang to
his feet. Waving his goblet toward Yorke (who stood behind Captain
Clarke's chair grinning delightedly at every flash of wit, whether he
understood it or not), he called out:

"I drink to the health of Monsieur Yorke, gentlemen, tallest and most
smiling of sable Mercurys. May his inches never be fewer nor his
smiles grow less."

I saw my captain frown, and Yorke, who did not understand one word
that was said, since it was all in French, easily understood the
gesture toward him, and the hesitating glances in his direction, and
the half-lifted glasses as their owners were in doubt whether the
toast was to be taken in jest or earnest. His eyes rolled in terror
from the proposer of the toast to Captain Clarke, and back again. I
knew my captain would never brook the indignity of having his health
drunk at the same table and by the same people who afterward drank his
slave's, and fearing an awkward _contretemps_, I sprang to my feet to
avert it. I lifted my glass high as I cried:

"Listen to me, messieurs! Is there no fair lady to whose honor your
young men would drink? For never could we drink to the ladies after
drinking to a negro and a slave. I give you, messieurs, the fairest
lady in St. Louis!"

As I said it, for one fleeting moment I had a vision of a round white
arm bare to the shoulder, a slender hand grasping a tawny mane, and
black eyes flashing with scorn. Perhaps it was due to that vision that
my voice had a ring in it that brought every man to his feet, and as
glasses clinked, each man drank to the lady of his love with a rousing
cheer.

As we brought our glasses to the table, rims down, the young man who
had proposed Yorke's health said, with a bow of apology to me:

"I accept my rebuke, and if the gentleman permit I would like to
repeat his toast: To the fairest lady in St. Louis--Dr. Saugrain's
ward!"

"Fill up your glasses, gentlemen, drain them to the lees, and throw
them over your shoulders; 'tis a worthy toast," cried the governor;
and, filling his to the brim, and draining it at one draught, he flung
it over his shoulder--an example which the others, benedict and
bachelor, followed with ardor. In the midst of the crashing of glass,
I thought I caught Dr. Saugrain's and Mr. Gratiot's eyes fixed
curiously on me. I turned to Mr. Pierre Chouteau:

"Dr. Saugrain's ward must be fair indeed, to rouse such enthusiasm," I
said.

"Vraiment," returned Pierre, "she is the Rose of St. Louis. But you
dine with Dr. Saugrain to-day: you will see, and then you will know.
Young Josef Papin yonder, who proposed the toast, is wild about her.
And so are half the young men of the village."

"Vraiment," I murmured to myself, "if she is fairer than the scornful
Mademoiselle Pelagie, she is fair indeed!"

And yet I found myself looking forward to Dr. Saugrain's dinner with
suppressed excitement, while I puzzled my brains to interpret his and
Mr. Gratiot's enigmatical glances in my direction.




CHAPTER III

I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

    "I am his Highness's dog at Kew;
    Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?"


"Allons!" said Mr. Pierre Chouteau, "I will show you the village.
There are yet two hours before Dr. Saugrain's dinner-hour arrives."

We were standing on the wide gallery of Government House, looking up
the Rue de la Tour to the "Fort on the Hill" with its massive round
towers of stone and high stockade. We had made our adieus to Governor
Delassus, and we were quite ready to accept Mr. Chouteau's invitation.
Mr. Gratiot and Mr. Auguste Chouteau excused themselves from
accompanying us on the ground of pressing business, but Mr. Auguste
Chouteau said he hoped soon to see us at his own house, and Mr.
Gratiot promised to meet us at dinner at Dr. Saugrain's.

So it was only four of us who set out (or five, if you count the black
as one), Mr. Chouteau and my captain leading, Dr. Saugrain and I
following, with Yorke trailing in the rear; for Captain Clarke did not
dare leave that ingenious black to his own devices, being well assured
that it would certainly result in disaster to himself or to some of
the habitans.

Diagonally across the street, at the corner of the Rue de la Tour and
the Rue Royale, was a large garden, shut in by solid stone walls
higher than a man's head. Over the top of the walls fell branches of
fruit-trees, and grape-vines still with a few clusters of late grapes
hanging from them. Beyond were the tops of lofty shade-trees, and
between the branches, where the foliage was rapidly thinning, we could
catch glimpses of the stone chimneys and dormer-windows of a great
house.

We turned into the Rue Royale and walked by the stone wall stretching
north a long distance. The morning had been frosty, but the noon sun
was hot, and we were glad to shelter ourselves under the overhanging
boughs. It was Auguste Chouteau's place, but Pierre said he would let
his brother have the pleasure of showing it to us; and we were about
to pass the wide entrance-gate half-way down the long wall when we
were stopped by a strange procession. Out of the gate filed slowly,
solemnly, one at a time, a long line of fantastically dressed Indians.
The two in front were attired alike in shabby old United States
uniforms, with gold epaulets much tarnished and worn, dilapidated gold
lace on collars and sleeves, and wearing on their heads military hats
with long draggled plumes. From thigh to the low moccasins their legs
were entirely unclothed, and a more ludicrous combination than the
civilized coats and the bare brown legs I had never seen. The two in
military coats were evidently chiefs, and were followed by a long line
of braves sweltering under heavy Mackinac blankets, each armed with a
scarlet umbrella in one hand and a palm-leaf fan in the other, to
protect them from the sun. Apparently they did not glance in our
direction, but each one as he passed Mr. Chouteau saluted him with a
guttural "Ugh!" to which Mr. Chouteau responded in the most military
fashion.

"They are on their way to my place, and we will let them get well
ahead of us," Mr. Chouteau said, as the last brave passed us. "It
would hardly be dignified to be trailing in their rear; we will step
into my brother's garden for a moment and give them time to get out of
our way."

The massive gates, which, I saw, could be heavily bolted and barred,
stood open, and we passed through into a park-like inclosure,
beautifully laid out and kept in perfect order, with velvet turf and
noble forest trees, and, in one part, a garden of vegetables and
flowers. Set in the midst was a noble stone mansion some sixty feet in
front, with wide galleries shaded by a projection of sloping roof,
which was pierced by dormer-windows. Several smaller stone buildings
were grouped around it, and from one to the other negroes were passing
on various errands, giving a cheerful impression of industry and
prosperity. I caught the flutter of a white dress disappearing through
a wide door opening from the gallery into the house, and I would have
liked to get a nearer view of the mansion and its inmates. But an
exclamation from Mr. Chouteau put all thoughts of petticoats out of my
mind.

"Diable!" he ejaculated, "'tis Black Hawk himself. Now what is the
meaning of this, think you?"

I followed his glance, and saw coming from one of the outbuildings the
noblest specimen of a savage I had ever beheld. Unlike the others, he
was decked in no worn-out finery of the white man, bestowed upon him
in exchange for valuable furs, but in the fitting costume of a great
chief, his head-dress of eagle feathers falling back from the top of
his head almost to his high beaded moccasins. He was far above the
usual stature of Indians, and what increased his appearance of height
was the lofty brow and noble dome, beneath which two piercing eyes and
strong aquiline nose gave additional character to a most striking
face.

I thought both Mr. Chouteau and Dr. Saugrain looked a little troubled
for a moment, but as the savage stalked majestically toward us, Pierre
advanced to meet him, and with a courteous but commanding wave of his
hand stopped him.

"What has brought my brother from his island on the bosom of the Great
Father of Waters?" he asked, after both had exchanged formal
greetings.

Black Hawk turned his piercing eyes upon my captain. "It was whispered
among my braves," he said, "that the great Captain of the Long Knives
had sent his brother to St. Louis. I bring him a greeting from my
people."

Most men would have been abashed by the ceremonial tone and gestures
with which Black Hawk accompanied his speech, but if my captain felt
any embarrassment he did not show it. With as ceremonious a manner as
the chief's, he replied at once:

"The great chief of the Sacs has honored my brother and myself. I will
bear your greeting to the Captain of the Long Knives, and it will fill
his heart with happiness to know his red brother has not forgotten
him."

Black Hawk only grunted approval, but I think he was pleased, for he
turned to Mr. Chouteau with a more condescending manner:

"I will go with my brother to his wigwam. I will eat with him and
sleep with him."

There was nothing for Mr. Chouteau to do but acquiesce, though when
his back was turned on Black Hawk he made a queer grimace and said
rapidly, in English, which probably Black Hawk did not understand:

"There will be trouble, my friends; my yard is full of Mandans,
Arickarees, and Osages. They love not the Sacs, and Black Hawk is a
turbulent fellow if any misunderstanding should arise. You see," he
said to Captain Clarke, lapsing again into French, "these fellows have
usually started back up the Missouri long before this time, but they
have all waited this year to see the brother of the great Captain of
the Long Knives. They planned their exit from Auguste's yard at the
exact moment to get a good look at you."

My captain laughed his hearty laugh.

"And then they glanced not in my direction even, after all."

"Do not deceive yourself, mon capitaine; they looked you over
thoroughly. Not one of them but would know you again among a thousand.
But they timed their exit also with the hope of making an impression
on you, and to that end, as you saw, had donned their finest toggery."

We had left Auguste Chouteau's yard and were going north again along
the stone wall, Black Hawk stalking majestically beside Captain
Clarke, upon whom he from time to time looked down and bestowed a
grunt of approval. Across the street from us now was an open square
(La Place Publique, Mr. Chouteau called it), and drawn up around it
were many queer little French _charrettes_, loaded with cord-wood and
drawn by small mustangs. The owners of the charrettes were most of
them taking a noonday nap under the shade of the trees in La Place,
and their mustangs were nodding drowsily in their shafts in sympathy
with their owners. This was the same open place we had first come upon
after climbing the bluff, and now, as we came to the corner of La
Place, and the street leading down to the river (Mr. Chouteau said the
street was called La Rue Bonhomme), I looked down the steep road and
saw at the foot of it the landing-place, and our boats tied to great
posts, with some of our men in charge.

I could distinguish on the great flatboat that had followed us,
carrying our provisions and our horses, my own mare, Fatima, with her
proudly arched neck. Before I had time to think of my manners I had
put my fingers to my lips and uttered through them the shrill whistle
with which I had used to call her. Instantly her head was flung
swiftly up, and I saw her start as if to come to me, while up the
bluff was borne her shrill whinnies, high above the shouts of the men,
who had as much as they could do to keep her from breaking halter in
her mad plunge for liberty to answer the call she had never disobeyed.

I was ashamed of my boyish trick, and apologized at once to the two
gentlemen and to my captain. But Dr. Saugrain said it was a fortunate
reminder: if we cared to send for our horses they could meet us at Mr.
Chouteau's, for it would be a long and hot walk from there to his
house at the extreme southern end of the village. So Yorke was
despatched for the two horses, and right glad was I at the thought of
being on Fatima's back once more, for it was a full two weeks since I
had mounted her.

We were on the next block now, skirting another stone wall with
overhanging boughs. Mr. Chouteau said it was his mother's place, and
he would have to insist upon our stopping to pay our respects to her.

"You know," he said, "madame ma mère is a sort of mother to the
village, and she would feel herself deeply aggrieved should such
distinguished guests pass her by."

We entered another inclosure beautifully embowered in trees, and found
a long, low building, not of stone, like her son's house, but built,
in the French fashion, of upright logs. On the wide gallery sat Madame
Chouteau herself, dressed in the style of the habitans who had filled
the streets on our arrival, but in richer materials. Her petticoat
was of black satin, and her short gown, or jacket, was of purple
velvet with wide lace in sleeves and at the neck, and gorgeously
beaded moccasins on her feet. But it was her head-dress which struck
me as the most remarkable part of her costume, and Pierre Chouteau
whispered to us, with a droll grimace:

"Regardez the head-dress of madame; she expects us, is it not? She is
en fête."

It seemed to be a handkerchief of some thin material, purple in color,
and worn like a turban, but entwined with ribbons and flowers until it
became a gorgeous coronet, and added indescribably to the majesty of
her presence. Already over seventy, with white hair, she was yet as
erect as a girl, and her eye was as keen as an eagle's. Even my
captain was abashed before its glances, which seemed to be taking a
complete inventory of his physical, mental, and moral qualities. It
was a bad quarter of an hour for me (whom she hardly deigned to
notice), in spite of the good ratafia and delicious _croquecignolles_
a small black boy brought out on a tray and placed on a stand at her
side, and which she served to us with stately courtesy.

As for Black Hawk, it was more than he could stand when her severely
questioning glance fell upon him. Without losing an ace of his
dignified solemnity of demeanor, he turned his back abruptly on the
old lady, and stalked slowly and majestically down the path and out
the gate. We hoped we had rid ourselves of him, but we found him
waiting for us when we had made our formal adieus to madame. Just
before we reached Pierre Chouteau's house he dropped back and walked
beside Dr. Saugrain and myself. I thought he wished to pay me some of
the respect he had been showing my captain, and I felt flattered
accordingly. But I was mistaken; he had something to say to Dr.
Saugrain. With many premonitory grunts he said it finally, and it had
a startling effect upon the little doctor.

"Let great medicine-man watch," said Black Hawk, solemnly; "White Wolf
will steal Little Black Eyes. Black Hawk has many ears and many eyes;
he has seen White Wolf talking to Red Dog, and he has heard their
whispers."

Such was the doctor's agitation that, although we were just entering
Mr. Chouteau's great yard (so filled with all manner of buildings,
warehouses, shops, and cabins for negroes and Indians that it seemed
like a separate village of itself), he called to my captain and Mr.
Chouteau and begged them to excuse him. He felt that he must return
home at once and assure himself of the safety of his ward, he said,
though we need not cut short our visit to Mr. Chouteau, but come to
him later, in time for dinner. But Yorke coming up at that moment with
our horses, and riding his own, Captain Clarke bade him dismount and
give his horse to Dr. Saugrain, and insisted upon accompanying him
home. Mr. Chouteau readily excused us, only courteously making a
condition that the visit cut short now should be renewed at our
earliest convenience.

As for me, I was a little sorry not to see more of Mr. Chouteau's
place, for everywhere there were throngs of Indians in picturesque
costume, and on the gallery of the great house a bevy of young maidens
evidently awaiting our approach. But Fatima was calling me frantically
with her delighted neighs, and the moment I was on her back, and felt
her silken muscles stretch and tighten rhythmically beneath me, I
cared no more for Mr. Chouteau's interesting place with its Indians
and young maidens, and only longed for a right to leave my companions
and have one good dash with Fatima across country, over fences and
ditches. I would not have been afraid, in my present mood, to have put
her at the high stone walls with which every one in St. Louis seemed
to fence in his place, and so wild with delight was Fatima at meeting
her master once more I think she would have taken them like a bird.

But the doctor was more impatient than I, and first taking Black Hawk
aside for a minute's low-toned consultation, he made his hasty adieus
to our host, and bidding us follow him, he was off. Turning off the
Rue Royale into the Rue Bonhomme, he went up the hill a long block to
the Rue de l'Église, and then, turning to the left, he called back to
us:

"'Tis a straight road from here on, messieurs; shall we race for it?
It may mean more than life to a fair lady."

For answer I laid the reins on Fatima's glossy neck and whispered to
her:

"Get up, Sweetheart!"

In a flash she had passed the two other horses and her dainty hoofs
were flinging the soft dirt of the road in their faces. It was more a
country lane than a village street, with scattered houses
tree-embowered, and just back of Auguste Chouteau's place, which I
recognized from the rear, was a church, and behind it the crosses of
many graves, and beside it a priest's house with two black-robed
priests taking a noonday siesta in comfortable chairs on the shady,
vine-covered gallery. They awoke with a start as Fatima thundered by,
and the two other horses, now well in the rear, pounded after, and I
doubt not they thought it was the beginning of another 1780 affair, so
frightened did they look.

It did not take Fatima long to cover that mile and a half, and when I
saw that we were approaching the stockade at the end of the road, with
only one house between (which, like the Chouteaus', was set in a great
yard inclosed with high stone walls), I drew rein under a
wide-spreading oak and waited for the others. And as I waited I began
once more to wonder what kind of creature Dr. Saugrain's ward could
be: the acknowledged belle of St. Louis and now in some extreme danger
from a white villain and a rascally Indian, for so I had easily
understood Black Hawk's figurative language--the White Wolf and the
Red Dog.

I could hear the soft thrumming of a guitar, and a low voice crooning
songs, of which I could now and then catch a word of the creole
French. I did not doubt it was the doctor's ward who thus beguiled
the hours with melody, and I grew vastly impatient to meet the
loveliest lady in St. Louis and the sweetest of singers, if I could
judge from the snatches of song that floated to my ears.

In a minute more the doctor himself rode up, shouting lustily before
he reached the gate, "Narcisse, Narcisse!" which put a sudden end to
the music. As a black boy ran out in answer to his call, the doctor
sprang as nimbly from his horse as I myself could have done, and flung
the boy his reins with a sharp command to take care of the horses. He
started swiftly for the house, but stopped suddenly and turned to
Narcisse.

"Where are your mistress and mademoiselle?" he asked, in a tone so
sharp and excited the boy was frightened and stammered as he answered:

"In the house, sir."

"You are sure?"

"Yes, sir; 'fore God, sir, they're in the living-room this minute."

"Thank God!" ejaculated the doctor, and then I saw, to my
astonishment, that he was all white and trembling. He recovered
himself in a moment and turned to us with the suavity of a genial
host:

"Gentlemen, I fear that rascal Black Hawk has played us a scurvy
trick; very likely for reasons of his own he wanted to get rid of me.
He has given me a bad quarter of an hour, but otherwise he has only
given me the pleasure of welcoming you a little earlier to Émigré's
Retreat. Let us go find the ladies."

Before we had time to reply, round the corner of the house sauntered
slowly a huge mastiff, and as I caught a glimpse of him my heart sank
into my boots, and there seemed to rise into my throat a tumultuous
beating that was nigh to choking me: not from fear of the dog, though
the moment he caught sight of me he stopped, every muscle tense, the
hair on his mane erect, his eyes red, glowing, vicious, while he
uttered one deep angry growl after another.

It was not fear of the brute that set my pulses throbbing painfully:
it was the truth that flashed upon me for the first time--_Dr.
Saugrain's ward was Mademoiselle Pelagie_! At that moment through the
open door came a clear whistle and the sweetest voice I had ever
heard, calling in ringing tones of command:

"À moi, Leon!"




CHAPTER IV

I MAKE AN ENGAGEMENT

    "A rosebud set with little wilful thorns"


It was too late to beat a retreat. I caught once more a merry twinkle
in the little doctor's eyes as we followed the dog, who, obedient to
his mistress's voice, had rushed before us into the house. I felt the
red blood surging to the roots of my hair, and I knew when I stopped
on the threshold beside my captain to make my grand bow that I looked
more like an awkward country lout than the fine gentleman I was in the
habit of considering myself.

I hardly dared raise my eyes, and yet I saw very distinctly that if
Mademoiselle Pelagie in ball costume was bewitching, Mademoiselle
Pelagie in simple morning dress was an angel. The room was a long, low
one, cool and shady from the sheltering galleries outside, and with
many windows, all open to catch the southern breezes that kept the
dimity curtains bellying like white sails. On a low seat beside one of
the open windows, looking out into cool depths of dusky green, sat
Mademoiselle Pelagie. Her white dress, short of skirt and reaching
hardly to the daintiest of ankles, was just low enough in the neck to
show the round, white throat, and just short enough in the sleeve to
leave uncovered below the elbow the beautifully molded arm. Across her
shoulders was a broad blue ribbon that held the guitar to whose soft
thrumming I had been listening, and one restraining hand was laid on
Leon's head, who sat beside her, erect on his haunches, regarding me
with angry suspicion.

She rose as we entered, and still holding her guitar with one arm,
while the other hand lifted her skirt daintily, she made us the
deepest and most graceful of curtsies. Then she lifted her dark eyes
shyly to Captain Clarke and with a ravishing smile bade him welcome in
broken English. To me she vouchsafed not even a glance. I stood by
stiff as any martinet while she made soft speeches to the captain in
her adorable baby-English, and the captain responded in his most
gallant fashion.

I grew more rigid and more gauche every minute, and I know not what
would have become of me if the doctor, who had left the room to look
for his wife, had not come to my relief. He came in, bringing Madame
Saugrain with him, and a sweet and simple little old lady she proved
to be. Her cap was almost as flowery as Madame Chouteau's, but she was
as warm and cordial in her manner as the other was stern and
forbidding. She greeted my captain first, of course, but she was as
cordial to me as to him, and in her motherly way she called me "My
son," which, after my icy reception from another lady, went straight
to my heart. I was grateful to her in spite of the fear I felt that
it was my very youthful appearance had called forth the endearing
term.

We were all comfortably seated, Captain Clarke chatting gaily with
Mademoiselle Pelagie, I pointedly addressing all my conversation to
Dr. Saugrain and madame, when Narcisse came in with a tray of cooling
drinks--a mild and pleasant beverage made of raspberry conserves and
lime-juice mixed with some spirits and plenty of cold spring water. I
liked it well, and would have taken another glass, for I was thirsty
and our ride had been a warm one, and Madame Saugrain urged it upon
me, but as I was about to take it I heard a saucy voice saying:

"'Tis no wonder that you empty not your glass, Captain Clarke; 'tis a
drink much more suited to maidens and to young boys than to men."

My glass was half extended, but I drew it back hastily, and then was
angry with myself, for I heard a mocking laugh that I was sure was
intended for me, and for the life of me I could not refrain from
glancing quickly in mademoiselle's direction. Her eyes met mine with
more of scorn in their dark depths than I could well stand. I gazed
steadily into them for as much as half a second with all the defiance
in my glance I knew how to convey, and then I turned again to Madame
Saugrain:

"If you will permit me to change my mind, madame," I said, "I would
like another glass of your delicious beverage."

And then, lifting it to my lips, I added:

"I drink to the ladies: they add fragrance and beauty to our lives,
like the red berries; comfort and strength, like this good ratafia;
sweetness, like the sugar; and if sometimes they also add bitterness
and acid, like the limes, it is doubtless for our good."

The gentlemen both touched glasses with me as they drank to my toast,
the little doctor preternaturally solemn, and my captain almost as
grave, but for a wicked twinkle in his eye. I knew they thought my
toast a boyish one, and doubtless understood its inspiration, while
they struggled to preserve their gravity out of courtesy to me.
Whether mademoiselle's eyes were more mocking than ever I did not
know, for I looked not in her direction. But madame glowed with
genuine pleasure and declared 'twas a pretty toast, and she thanked me
for her share in it. Whereupon mademoiselle said in the gravest voice:

"I also, monsieur, thank you for my share in it, for I suppose the
lime-juice is mine," and, to my amazement, when, as in duty bound, I
glanced at her, since she spoke directly to me, I saw that her eyes
were downcast, and the richest color had flamed into the warm white of
her cheeks.

I know not what I might have said or done, so repentant was I at once
for having caused her annoyance, had not a short, sharp exclamation
from Dr. Saugrain startled us all:

"'Tis that skulking Osage again. What does he here, Narcisse?"

"He bring note, m'seh, for La Petite," answered Narcisse, rolling his
eyes at the unwonted sharpness in his master's tones.

Dr. Saugrain turned at once to mademoiselle.

"Pelagie," he said, "what does this mean? Who is sending you notes by
Red Jean?"

Mademoiselle looked up half defiantly, half inclined not to reply to
such peremptory questioning in the presence of strangers. But on
second thought she answered quite submissively:

"It was the young Chevalier Le Moyne who is staying at Gabriel
Cerré's."

"Now, I like not that," said the doctor, hastily; and then bethinking
himself, he ordered Narcisse to take away the empty glasses and keep
an eye on Red Jean.

"Don't let him get out of your sight as long as he stays about the
place; he will be stealing the horses if you don't watch him."

The moment Narcisse had left the room the doctor repeated:

"I like not that; I begin to think Black Hawk may have had good reason
to warn us against the White Wolf and the Red Dog."

Then, turning to mademoiselle, he added more gently:

"I like not to inquire into mademoiselle's little affairs, but this is
of the gravest importance. Will you tell us the contents of that note,
ma chère?"

Mademoiselle hesitated, and glanced almost unconsciously at the
captain and at me. We both sprang to our feet at the same moment, and
the captain spoke:

"The lad and I will step out on the gallery, where, if you permit, we
will light our pipes."

But with a quick gesture of dissent, mademoiselle also sprang to her
feet.

"No, no! mon capitaine, no, no! Meestaire, it is not'ing, not'ing. I
will say all before you. 'Tis only that the chevalier asks may he
escort me to the peek-neek on Chouteau's Pond."

"Sit down, gentlemen, if you please," said the doctor; "I think it
wise for us to hold a council of war. I shall need your advice much,
possibly your help. First, I want to say that some weeks ago I
received letters from France warning me of a plot to capture
Mademoiselle Pelagie and carry her back to France. A week ago this
mysterious stranger arrived in St. Louis. Gabriel Cerré picked him up
in Ste. Genevieve and brought him home with him, and that is about all
any one knows of him, except that he claims to be of an old French
family, who has saved enough from the wreck to permit him to travel
and see the world. When he has finished this trip he declares he will
return and settle on his estates on the Loire which he says have been
returned to him by Bonaparte. Whether Black Hawk meant him when he
bade me beware of the White Wolf I know not. I could get very little
information when I spoke to him before leaving Pierre Chouteau's, and
I am not sure he had any to give me, yet I think he knows something. I
confess I have been suspicious of this fellow from the first,
arriving, as he did, on the heels of my letter of warning. And now
what think you 'tis best to do?"

I was eager enough to say what I thought best to do, but I knew my
place better than to speak before my elders, and so I waited for my
captain. Mademoiselle was not so modest, or perhaps she thought no one
had a better right than herself to speak on a subject so nearly
concerning her.

"I think, sir," she said, lapsing into her native tongue, "you wrong
the Chevalier Le Moyne. I have seen much of him in the week of his
stay at Gabriel Cerré's, and he has been invariably respectful and
most gentleman-like in all his demeanor."

"'Tis the very fact of his seeing so much of you, my child, that first
roused my suspicions. He is forever hanging round you at dance and
dinner; not even Josef Papin gets much chance to come nigh you."

Mademoiselle flushed slightly at the mention of Josef Papin's name--a
name I was beginning, for some reason, to dislike.

"I should think," she said demurely, "there might be other reasons for
that than suspicious ones"; and then she laughed merrily when I
murmured, "Vraiment!" and touched my heart with my handkerchief. I
thought she was mocking me again.

"Mademoiselle is quite right," said Captain Clarke, gravely; "there
are doubtless very natural reasons for the chevalier's devotion, yet I
think it would be well, nevertheless, to act on Dr. Saugrain's
suspicions. May I inquire whether mademoiselle has accepted the
chevalier's offer of escort?"

We all listened eagerly for the answer.

"No," said mademoiselle; "I had just received the note when you
arrived, and I would not answer it until I had consulted my guardian.
He is very stern with me, messieurs," turning to us with a witching
smile that I could see pleased the good doctor greatly.

"Then," continued the captain, "it would be a very easy matter, I
suppose, to decline his escort."

But La Petite pouted.

"Not so easy, mon capitaine. I have no reason to offer, and it would
shut me off from accepting a second invitation."

"I think," said Dr. Saugrain, "it would be better that you should not
go to the picnic. Chouteau's Pond is beyond the stockade, and shut in
by the woods; it would be an ideal spot for a surprise and a capture.
There are always plenty of rascally Osages to be hired for a trifle to
carry out any such villainy."

"Not go!" exclaimed mademoiselle, in dismay. "But it is given for me!
It is my fête! Josef Papin planned it entirely for me, he said."

Mademoiselle was now growing rosy red, for, with a child's eagerness
to carry her point at all hazards, she had said more than she meant
to.

"Then why did not Josef offer himself as your escort?"

"He will, probably, later; but," and she tossed her head like the
spoiled beauty she was, "it will serve him right, for being so slow,
to find that I have accepted another. Besides which," and she shrugged
her shoulders with all the airs of a Parisian dame, "you know your
bourgeois etiquette. I cannot accept another: it would be a just
cause for a duel au pistolets."

"C'est vrai," said the doctor, with an answering shrug, and looking
woefully perplexed.

"Now, if you will permit me," suggested the captain, "since
mademoiselle is so sure Mr. Papin will ask her later, why can she not
plead to the chevalier a previous engagement?"

But not for a moment would mademoiselle listen to that.

"And be the laughing-stock of all St. Louis when it gets about, as it
surely will. I refuse the chevalier because I prefer to wait for
Monsieur Papin. Monsieur Papin hears of it and invites some one else
to teach me not to be so sure, or," primly, "I have given him undue
encouragement."

"Then," said the doctor, gravely, "I see nothing for it but that you
stay away from the picnic and write the chevalier that you have
decided not to go. Unless," he added hastily, seeing the gathering
storm on Pelagie's brow, "unless--" and then he hesitated, much
embarrassed. "Perhaps our young friend here would like to attend one
of our rural picnics, and would be willing to look after you and give
you the opportunity of writing to the chevalier that you have a
previous engagement."

It was now my turn to blush. I had been ardently longing to offer my
services, but not for a moment had I thought of daring. Now it was
thrust upon me.

"If mademoiselle would be so good," I murmured, bowing low, "I am her
obedient servant."

But mademoiselle was speechless. One moment she turned white, and the
next she turned red, and then white again. When she found her voice
she said, looking not at all at me, but straight at Dr. Saugrain:

"I will remain at home, monsieur. I care not to be a burden upon
unwilling hands."

And then rising to her feet, with her head held high, her guitar on
one arm, and the other hand still on the mastiff's head, she said:

"Allons, Leon!" and was sweeping proudly from the room.

I was in such consternation that probably I would have sat like any
bumpkin and let her go, if not that, as she passed me, although her
head was turned from me, it was not quite so much turned but that I
caught a sudden quiver of the little chin, held proudly in air, and
something bright glistening on the long, dark lashes. I sprang quickly
before her. There was an angry growl from Leon, who no doubt thought I
intended to serve his mistress the same trick I had served him, but I
did not heed it.

"Mademoiselle!" I entreated, "I beg you will reconsider. Nothing could
give me more pride and pleasure. Besides," adopting an argumentative
tone, "you know it would be my only chance for attending the picnic,
and I have a vast desire to engage in some of your St. Louis
festivities, and to meet some of the young maidens I was deprived of
meeting last night."

She was compelled to stop,--I barred her way; but for a few moments
she showed no signs of relenting. She dashed away the shining drops
from her lashes, and quieted Leon with a low "Taise-toi." But
gradually I saw her face change, and then, still holding herself
proudly, and with the air of a queen graciously condescending to
bestow a favor upon a suppliant, but also with a smile of radiant
sweetness, she spoke, and her voice was like the song of the thrush
beside running waters:

"Very well, monsieur; if I am not to be considered as putting myself
under obligations to a stranger, I will go and write the chevalier
that I have a previous engagement."




CHAPTER V

I GO TO A PICNIC ON CHOUTEAU'S POND

    "Many a youth and many a maid
    Dancing in the chequered shade."


The good doctor uttered a sigh of relief as mademoiselle left the
room, followed by madame, who no doubt, in the goodness of her heart,
went out to praise the young lady for having done as she ought, and to
condole with her for being obliged to go to the picnic with a man she
knew so slightly, and knew but to dislike.

The sigh was quickly followed by a frown.

"I wish that my ward had not so strong a will of her own. I scarce
think it safe for her to go to Chouteau's Pond at all if, as I fear,
her enemies are plotting to capture her."

"I will defend her with my life, sir," I hastened to aver, "since you
are so good as to intrust her to me."

The doctor smiled at my boyish ardor, but said kindly:

"I would trust her with you sooner than with most, my lad, for I
believe I have seen enough of you to know that you are brave to a
fault, and entirely trustworthy. But you know not the wiles of these
treacherous Osages, and if this Chevalier Le Moyne is the man I fear
he is, he is a much to be dreaded villain."

"Whom do you fear him to be?" the captain and I uttered in one breath.

The good doctor hesitated a moment and then seemed to take a sudden
determination.

"I am afraid I have no right to be letting you into my confidence, for
it is not mine alone. In what I am about to say to you it is my
country reposing a confidence as well. But our brief acquaintance has
inspired me with trust in you both, and I have need of advice and help
in this emergency, and perhaps of a good sword, if one of you be free
to offer it. It is not the fortunes of a simple maid, such as my
little Pelagie seems to be, that are alone involved, and yet I am not
at liberty to tell you what great issues are at stake. We will say, by
way of illustration, it would be to the advantage of an Orleanist to
get rid of all possible Bourbon claimants to the throne of France,
would it not? Merely by way of further illustration, suppose there
were some young Orleanist, far removed from any pretensions to the
throne, who by marrying a young Bourbon maid much closer to the
throne, but, of course, barred from it by her sex, should prevent her
marrying royalty and so having a son who might succeed to the throne.
Do you follow me?"

We both bowed our comprehension, for we were too eager to interrupt
him by a word. The doctor went on:

"And suppose by such a marriage he removed one more obstacle from the
path of a powerful kinsman in his progress toward the throne. And if
this young Orleanist were penniless and the Bourbon maid rich in
prospect, he would save his kinsman the necessity of providing for
him. And if he were dissolute and unprincipled, he would hesitate at
no means to accomplish his ends. And if he were handsome, after a
fashion, and accomplished in all Parisian arts, there would be
reasonable chance of his success with a young maiden but little versed
in the wiles of the world. Although I have used this merely as an
illustration, this is very much the situation that confronts Pelagie's
friends. You see, I have some reason to feel alarmed, and I fear I
have no right to permit her to go to this picnic. Yet," with a
grimace, "what can I? Where a wilful maiden will, a man is helpless.

"And now, messieurs, you see how fully I have trusted you, not only
with my affairs, but the affairs of France. I am not asking for a
pledge of secrecy, for I feel no such pledge is necessary. Pelagie and
her interests and the interests of her house in France I believe to be
as safe in your hands as in my own."

As the doctor uttered these last words he sprang to his feet, and
betrayed the intensity of his feeling by the mist in his eyes, the
tremor in his voice, and the dramatic clasping of his hands.

By a simultaneous emotion of sympathy, both the captain and I found
ourselves on our feet also. The captain extended his hand, and, like
the straightforward, simple-minded gentleman he is, said only:

"Your trust is not misplaced, Dr. Saugrain; your secret is safe."

I was almost too deeply moved for words; I could only murmur as I
bowed low over the hilt of my sword:

"Safe as my honor!"

I know not with what emotions my captain had listened to this long
recital. As for me, I had been intensely interested. Yet I could not
tell why it should not please me to find that this scornful little
lady was presumptive heiress to wealth and titles, probably even of
royal rank, for so I could not but understand the doctor's
illustration.

"Does Mademoiselle Pelagie know all this?" inquired the captain. "Does
she know her rank and prospects? Is it permitted to speak of them to
her?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" uttered the doctor, rapidly, with vigorous
protestations of head and hands. "Pelagie knows nothing but that
almost longer ago than she can remember she lived in a beautiful house
with many servants, and with a father and mother who idolized her, but
who went away from her one day never to return. Of course she knows
now why they never returned, but that is all. She has lived with us in
America nearly ten years, and I think she has learned to love Madame
Saugrain and me almost as if we were indeed her father and mother, and
we could not love child of our own more tenderly.

"And so you see, my dear young sir," regarding me with affectionate
concern, "what a weighty responsibility I have put upon your young
shoulders. If the burden is too great for you, I absolve you from
your offer as escort, and Pelagie shall stay at home whether she will
or not. I think it would be far the better way."

"Oh, no, no, sir!" I protested eagerly. "I am proud you think me
worthy such a responsibility. I will never let her out of my sight for
one moment, and I promise to bring her back to you in safety."

"Thank you," said the doctor, gravely; "that is what I would wish. Do
not let her out of your sight if it is possible. Even if she seems to
be fretted by your espionage I hope you will bear with her
temper,--which I know to be a royal one,--and persist in your
watchfulness. I shall be deeply grateful to you."

By the time the day of the picnic arrived, I flattered myself I had
made some slight progress in Mademoiselle Pelagie's regard. Very
slight, to be sure, yet I thought she did not treat me with quite the
disdain she had shown at first. Indeed, I even thought I sometimes
detected that she was listening with interest when Madame Saugrain or
the good doctor was questioning me about my life at home in
Philadelphia.

Twice a day at least we were brought together at the table, for the
captain and I had taken up our abode at Dr. Saugrain's. It was not
without much demur that we had, at last, accepted the doctor's urgent
invitations to do so. To be sure, there was no hostelry in the
village, except the low tavern where the disreputable Indians and
rough river-men congregated, and we would have been obliged to accept
some of the many hospitable invitations extended us by the Chouteaus,
the Papins, the Cerrés, indeed by nearly every leading citizen of St.
Louis, all eagerly vying with one another for the privilege of
entertaining General Clarke's brother. I think the captain's hesitancy
arose from the feeling that he ought to accept Émile Yosti's or Manuel
Lisa's hospitality, since his business was chiefly concerned with
them; but with me it was the feeling that it would be intolerable to
dwell under the same roof with my Lady Disdain, and be subjected to
countless little ignominies at her hands. Yet when the doctor
presented it to us as a very great favor to him at this time, when he
might need our assistance as well as our advice in protecting
Mademoiselle Pelagie, we could object no further, and I, at least, was
as eager to stay as I had before been unwilling. To me it seemed the
more reasonable that he might easily need what assistance our swords
could give him, if there were really on foot a plan to capture
mademoiselle, because the doctor's house was set in a large garden, at
the extreme borders of the village, next to the stockade and with no
neighbor within hearing.

The day of the picnic rose clear and bright, changing soon to the
purple haze and soft air of a day in late November. Breakfast was
hardly over when the picnickers began to pass the house, some of them
walking in merry groups, some in little French carts drawn by oxen or
small, hardy ponies, but many of them, I noted with a beating heart,
on horseback carrying double, the maiden on a pillion holding fast
with her arm around her escort's waist. Was it thus my Lady Disdain
expected to be carried to the picnic, I wondered, and could not tell
for the life of me whether I most hoped it or dreaded it.

But my hopes and fears were alike vain. I sat smoking on the shady
gallery, and was beginning to wonder when my lady would see fit to
start, for by now the procession had thinned out to almost none, only
a straggling couple occasionally hurrying by as if they feared they
were late and must hasten to be in time for the sport. I began to
think it possible she had changed her mind and would stay at home
rather than go with an undesired escort.

I had risen early, and though I had made an unusually careful toilet,
calling Yorke to my aid to see that every lacer was fresh and securely
tied, and my buckles shining, yet I had made much haste also, not
knowing at what hour mademoiselle proposed starting, and fearing
greatly to annoy her by being one moment tardy. So here had I sat
smoking on the shady gallery a good two hours awaiting my lady's
pleasure, and beginning inwardly to fume, for my temper was not such
as to bear meekly even the caprices of a beautiful maiden--no, not
though she might be also some great lady in disguise.

But when I had for the tenth time started up to stride angrily up and
down the gallery, I heard the creaking of wheels, and around the
corner of the house came a little French charrette, its wooden wheels
making a great noise, drawn by one ox and Narcisse walking beside it,
driving. I was filled with dismay, for to me it seemed not a mode of
conveyance suited to the dignity of the son of one of the proudest
families of Philadelphia, to say nothing of Mademoiselle Pelagie.
Besides, I had had visions of the fine figure I was to cut before the
St. Louis beaus and belles on my prancing and curveting Fatima, whose
glossy coat was like satin this morning from the extra rubbing I had
ordered Yorke to give her.

But as Narcisse passed me and pulled off his hat with an amiable grin,
I saw a great hamper in the charrette, and from a spicy whiff borne to
my nostrils by a passing breeze I knew he was conveying our dinner to
the picnic-grounds, and I was duly thankful that neither Fatima nor I
was to be hampered ('tis a poor pun, and my father hath ever taught me
'tis the lowest form of wit) with clumsy packages dangling from saddle
and arm.

In a moment more, around the corner of the house again came a black,
leading a small Indian horse gaily caparisoned, and fitted with a
lady's pillion, and immediately behind, Yorke, leading my own Fatima.
I knew then we were about to start, and my heart began once more its
silly thumpings. Yet would I not move from my seat, where I had
assumed an attitude of indifference, until I suddenly heard behind me
a cool and haughty voice:

"Are you not ready, sir? It is high time, I should think, we were on
our way, or we will be too late for the déjeuner."

Now was I in wrath indeed, to be spoken to in tones of reproach when I
had every reason to expect at least an excuse, if not an apology, for
having been kept so long waiting. I rose to my feet in leisurely
fashion and made mademoiselle a most elaborate bow, as I replied in a
voice as cool and haughty as her own:

"Had I been informed at what hour mademoiselle would require my
presence, I should have been belted and hatted and not have detained
your ladyship for even a moment, to say nothing of having wasted two
good hours of my own time in idle waiting."

As I spoke I stooped to pick up my sword-belt from the floor beside my
chair, and began slowly to buckle it on. My eyes were on my belt, but
not so closely but that I could see a little smile hover around
mademoiselle's lips, and I thought she was not displeased to find I
had a little spirit of my own and was not always to be cowed by her
scornful airs. I was so elated by the discovery that I, foolishly,
prolonged the buckling beyond all possible necessity, and
mademoiselle's good humor was quickly exhausted. She tapped her little
foot impatiently for a moment and then spoke as icily as before:

"Since monsieur finds difficulty with his belt, I will ask Yorke to
put me on my horse and then send him to your assistance."

All my foolish elation was gone in a moment, and, between my
mortification and my impatient haste, I fumbled in earnest. I was in
desperate haste; for not for a moment did I intend to let Yorke put
her upon her horse: yet so swiftly had she swept down the long gallery
and the steps to the driveway a little distance off, and so slow had I
been with my buckle, that I reached her side just in time to hear her
say:

"Yorke, put me on my horse, and then go at once and buckle your
master's belt. We are like to be all day getting to Chouteau's Pond."

"Yes, missy," said Yorke, and flinging Fatima's reins to Narcisse,
prepared to obey her, though he could only have comprehended by
intuition, for not a word of her tongue did he understand.

I was restored at once to my equanimity by her impatient tones, and I
spoke to Yorke with a calm authority he dared not disobey:

"Take care of Fatima, Yorke; I will attend to mademoiselle," and
without giving her time to object I coolly lifted her to her horse.
She was only a feather's weight, but I think she liked not that
fashion of mounting, and was minded for a moment to kick and scream
like an angry child. But she thought better of it, and though the
quick flame sprang into her cheek, she bowed her thanks in stately
fashion, and I springing on Fatima's back and bidding Yorke to follow
at once, we set forth at a round pace.

Not a word did she speak as we galloped side by side down the
driveway, through the gate, and along the short bit of road that
extended to the stockade. When we had passed through, there was not
much more than a rough foot-path, that began to descend very soon from
the high bluffs, sometimes by a gentle incline, sometimes by a steep
and rocky descent, to the valley of La Petite Rivière.

The path was no longer wide enough for two horses, and we were
compelled to ride in Indian fashion. Fatima was ahead and was picking
her way daintily and surely, but slowly. The little Indian horse,
being much more used to such rough paths, would have gone on more
rapidly, and fretted at being kept back by Fatima. So, no doubt, did
his rider, for presently, in her formal way, she said:

"If monsieur will permit, I will take the lead. I think my pony knows
the path better and can show you the way."

But I had been specially warned to keep ever in advance, and it did
not add to mademoiselle's good humor that I was compelled to refuse
her the _pas_. I was beginning to feel that my task was a thankless
one, and the picnic on Chouteau's Pond did not look to me quite so
alluring as it had looked a few days before. Perhaps my face betrayed
my feeling; for when we reached the foot of the incline and our path
broadened out as it turned to follow the windings of the little river
toward the pond, mademoiselle rode up beside me, and with a very
pretty air indeed, half arch, half shy, wholly sweet, she said:

"I pray monsieur will not think me ungrateful. I do not forget that
but for his courtesy I could not have gone to my fête."

Then she added roguishly:

"But I will make amends. I will introduce you to many St. Louis
belles, the fascinating Pelagie Chouteau, Émilie Gratiot, who dances
like a fairy, and Marguerite and Marie Papin, the beautiful sisters.
And there are many more just as beautiful."

I bowed gravely:

"I thank you, mademoiselle. I have heard much of the beauty of the
St. Louis demoiselles, and have desired much to meet them. You
remember it was largely for that inducement I consented to undertake
the difficult task of looking after your ladyship."

Pelagie pouted.

"Why do you persist in calling me 'your ladyship'? I am only
mademoiselle."

"Indeed!" I said, with affected surprise: "your manner has led me to
suppose you marquise at least, if not duchesse."

Mademoiselle reddened, but spoke very seriously and very sweetly,

"I am afraid I have very bad manners, and a very bad temper. But I
intend to be good now, and to remind me I give you permission when I
am haughty or disagreeable to call me comtesse."

The sycamores and cottonwoods that bordered our path had lost more
than half their leaves, and the soft haze of the late November sun
filtering through flecked mademoiselle with pale gold. It touched her
dark hair and turned it to burnished bronze, it brought a faint rose
to the warm white of her cheek, and made little golden lights dance in
the shadows of her eyes uplifted to mine. The mysterious fragrance of
late autumn, of dying leaves and bare brown earth, and ripening nuts
and late grapes hanging on the vines, and luscious persimmons on the
leafless trees, rose like incense to my nostrils and intoxicated me. I
hardly knew how I answered as I looked deep into her shadowy eyes, and
I was almost glad that, our way crossing the little river by a steep
path leading down to a shallow ford, I was compelled once more to
take the lead.

Half-way across we stopped to let our horses dip their noses in the
cool water dashing merrily over the stones. Fatima only played with
it, swashing her muzzle well, and flinging the bright drops over
mademoiselle's horse, who drank steadily. The opposite bank was more
heavily wooded, and I became aware, as I sat idly flecking the foam
from Fatima's flanks with my riding-whip, that I had for some time
been hearing a whippoorwill calling and its mate replying. The woods
looked dense enough to be the haunts of the lonely birds, but,
nevertheless, I felt uneasy and began to listen--for rarely, indeed,
does one hear a whippoorwill in the daytime. I knew birds well, and I
soon became convinced that these whippoorwills were like none I had
ever heard. They were too deliberate in their calls and replies, and
the varying number of each sounded like a system of signals. I began
to wish mademoiselle had not been so tardy in starting, that we might
have had company on our way, and I strained my ears if I might hear
anything of Yorke, who should be not far behind.

But there were no signs of Yorke; and mademoiselle's horse had
finished drinking, and there was no excuse for our delaying longer. I
would not alarm mademoiselle with my suspicions, yet I wanted my
firearms ready to my hand. I drew my pistol from its holster and laid
it across my saddle-bow, saying carelessly that if I caught a glimpse
of that whippoorwill in the woods I should shoot it for my aunt in
Paris, who was making a collection of American birds.

Mademoiselle Pelagie accepted my explanation without comment, and I
led the way up the steep bank opposite. Once up, I saw, to my
satisfaction, that the path was still wide enough for two. I put
mademoiselle on the side nearest La Petite Rivière, and I rode next
the woods; and though mademoiselle had suddenly grown talkative, and
was full of a saucy French wit, I fear I must have seemed very stupid
to her, for all the while I was trying to keep up my share of repartee
and quip I was listening, listening. Mademoiselle noticed at last that
I was somewhat distrait.

"Why do you keep your eyes turned upon the woods, monsieur? In France
we are taught that it is polite to look at a lady when she speaks."

"Pardon, mademoiselle," I stammered. "I am looking for that
whippoorwill."

"Your apology is more than sufficient, monsieur," in her haughtiest
tones. "There will, no doubt, be no other opportunity so suitable for
adding to your aunt's collection."

I had kept my eyes fixed on the woods even while speaking to her, not
daring to turn them away, but at her tone I turned quickly toward her.

"Pardon, mademoiselle la comtesse," I began saucily, but went on
seriously. "Permit me, I beg, to seem rude, though it is farthest from
my desire to appear so. It is more than the whim of my aunt that is at
stake. Some day I will explain to you."

Even as I spoke I was startled by a sharp crackle followed by a
stealthy rustle, as if some one had inadvertently stepped upon a dry
twig and had then glided quickly away. I turned at once to the woods,
and could almost have sworn I caught a fleeting glimpse of a
copper-colored hand, and the flash of a rifle-barrel. But as I gazed
longer I saw nothing but the dense foliage of the low scrub-oaks that
grew under the tall forest trees, and I hoped I was mistaken.

A level bit of road stretched ahead of us.

"Will you race with me, mademoiselle, to yonder tree?"

The quicker we got to Chouteau's Pond the better, I thought, and the
faster we left the whippoorwills behind the better also.

"I will race you and beat you," she said gaily; "my little La Bette is
fleet of foot. But what shall be the prize?"

"If I win," I said boldly, "the first dance to-day."

I thought a shadow of annoyance passed over her face, but it cleared
and she answered slyly:

"And if I win, I claim the first whippoorwill you shoot; the second
may go to your aunt."

"Done!" I said grimly. "Are we off?"

It was evident that fleet as La Bette might be, Fatima was far
fleeter. But not for worlds would I have left mademoiselle behind; so,
while seeming to urge Fatima forward, I was, in reality, giving her
the constant little touch that meant a check. Still I was mindful of
my prize, and when we were not more than twenty yards from the tree,
and I thought we were safe, I gave Fatima the rein and passed the tree
a full length ahead.

I felt a little more comfortable now, for I thought if I had really
seen a redskin with a gun lurking among the bushes, we must have left
him well behind, and we fell into a comfortable little jog-trot, side
by side again. Suddenly I heard once more the ominous crackle of a dry
twig, and turning quickly, I looked full into a pair of dark eyes
peering through the bushes. I hesitated not a moment, but raising my
pistol, leveled it straight at the eyes, and would have fired but that
a voice called to me in good English:

"Hold, monsieur! Do not fire!"

And from behind the clump of bushes sprang a more elaborately dressed
man than any I had yet seen in St. Louis. In truth, I thought him too
foppishly arrayed for the woods, for there were fine ruffles at wrist
and knee, and beneath his leathern doublet peeped the edges of a satin
waistcoat, canary-colored. His hair was long and curled and tied with
a ribbon, but it was not powdered, and over his forehead it fell in
short, black curls that made his skin look very white and pink;
indeed, I was not at all sure but the pink of his cheeks and the red
of his lips were more of art's cunning than nature's mingling. A soft,
dark mustache on his upper lip, carefully trained and curled, proved
him a Parisian of the latest mode, and I at once felt an instinctive
dislike and distrust of him. I had never seen him before, but I was
not at all surprised when mademoiselle addressed him as Chevalier Le
Moyne and paid me the compliment of presenting him to me.

There was just a little disapproval in mademoiselle's manner, for the
chevalier had certainly been caught spying, if nothing worse; and he
had the grace to be embarrassed, and hastened to make his apologies in
voluble French, which he seemed to take for granted I did not
understand.

"I missed mademoiselle from the fête, and I sauntered out to see if
there were any signs of her approach. Mademoiselle must know that it
is no fête for me when the queen is away, and the day is _triste_
indeed that is not lighted by her eyes. I was not sure it was
mademoiselle when I heard voices, and so I looked through the bushes
to see before addressing her."

"You spoke just in time," mademoiselle replied. "Monsieur took you for
a whippoorwill, and a moment more," with an arch glance at me, "he
might have added you to his aunt's collection."

I thought at first my lady must be heartless indeed to make a jest of
a very narrow escape from death, but as I glanced at her, I saw little
tongues of flame leaping in and out of her cheeks, and a great pulse
beating in her throat, and I knew the light manner was only a mask.

I watched the chevalier narrowly as she spoke of the whippoorwill, and
I saw him look quickly at her with a startled glance, but her evident
innocence reassured him. I spoke to him in his own tongue, partly to
show him I understood it very well and he must be careful what he said
before me, and partly because I was not sure he understood mine.
Indeed, I had many times been thankful that my French was almost as
natural to me as my English, for in this French-and Spanish-speaking
town there was almost no one could speak my tongue. Once in a great
while (but not often) mademoiselle attempted it, either to practise
her English or out of compliment to my captain, who was not quite so
fluent with his French as I. (And when she did, her pretty broken
accents made our rough language sweet as the song of birds.)

"Monsieur was fortunate to speak so soon," I said. "I am looking for
whippoorwills, and I took you for one. A moment more would have been
too late."

But as I spoke I looked straight into his eyes with a meaning he could
not misunderstand. His glance fell, and a deep red slowly mounted from
beneath the artificial pink of his cheeks and spread over his face. He
recovered himself in a moment, however, and answered me gaily:

"Thanks, monsieur, for a narrow escape. 'Tis the luck of the Le
Moynes. Perhaps you know the motto of our house?--'By hairbreadth
escapes we _always win_.'"

And this time he looked straight into my eyes, and conveyed by his
glance a haughty challenge.

I bowed a mute acceptance of it; and mademoiselle, conscious from our
manner we were not particularly amiable toward each other, hastened to
avert any threatening unpleasantness.

"I think the chevalier will excuse us if we hasten on. We are already
late, and I fear we will keep déjeuner waiting."

The chevalier bowed low, with his hand on his heart, and stepped aside
to allow us to pass.

It was but a five minutes' ride till we left the woodland path and the
merry company of the little river and stood on the shores of
Chouteau's Pond. I had not expected to find such a beautiful woodland
lake, and at my exclamation of delighted surprise, mademoiselle looked
pleased indeed.

"We are proud of our pond, which Mr. Auguste Chouteau has made for
us," she said. "Is it not as beautiful as your Pennsylvania lakes?"

"I have never seen a more beautiful!" I ejaculated fervently, and I
spoke truly.

We had drawn rein on a point of high land, and at our feet the waters
of the little river, in foaming rapids and tumbling cascades,
stretched up to the foot of a high dam, where the waters of the lake
poured over in a silver flood. To the right, embowered in trees, were
the vine-covered stone towers of Chouteau's mill, and beyond, gentle
grassy slopes, with drooping trees dipping their branches in the
water. To the left rose high banks with overarching foliage, and then
for a mile or two the lake wound from one embowered cove to another,
till it was lost in the hazy distance. Directly below us, it lay a
glorious topaz in the soft November sun, for which the dark porphyry
of oaks, the tawny gold of cottonwoods, and the emerald of turf and
darker green of cedars made a jeweled setting richer and more
harmonious than would have been the flaming scarlet and gold of our
Eastern woods. On the bosom of the little lake a white sail was
floating lazily, for there was but little breeze, and two or three
canoes were darting swiftly from shore to shore, the dip of their
paddles breaking the lake to flashing silver.

There were no other signs of life, and now mademoiselle took the lead
and we followed the right shore of the lake behind the stone mill,
along the shady, grassy slopes, until, after several windings, we came
out on a little cove where a silvery fountain bubbled up and flowed
down in a tiny rivulet to the lake. Around the fountain was soft green
turf, with natural seats of rock, shaded by lofty trees, where the
deep forest came down to the shores of the cove, and here we found our
party of merry revelers. Horses, ponies, and oxen were all tethered
deep in the forest, while young men and maidens were running to and
fro, arranging tempting piles of broiled fowl, venison, and game
pasties on the white cloth, spread on the green grass. A delicious
odor of coffee came from a great caldron, hung over a stone fireplace
on an improvised crane, and two young men were mixing, in a great
bowl, a spicy compound of spring water, ratafia, sweet spices, and
raspberry wine.

They hailed the arrival of mademoiselle with delight, and young Josef
Papin came running up, and took hold of her horse's bridle-rein, and
led her to the head of the table, where they had made a throne for the
queen of the fête out of a flat rock, covered with bright-colored
capotes, and wreathed with garlands of bright-leaved vines.

He claimed it his due, as giver of the feast, to sit at her right, and
awarded to me, as a courtesy due her escort, the seat on her left. In
the merry scramble for places that followed (there was nothing rude in
it: these French folk are gentle and courteous in their gayest
frolics) the chevalier was forgotten. When he came in, late (somewhat
flushed, as if he might have been running when no man was looking, but
debonair and smiling, with many apologies), there was no place for him
near mademoiselle, and I was not sorry. Neither, I confess, did he
seem to be, for he devoted himself pointedly to Mademoiselle Chouteau,
as fascinating a little coquette as mademoiselle had described her.

Half-way through the meal the chevalier made an excuse for going for a
cup of water to the spring, and, in passing behind mademoiselle, he
stopped a moment to ask her, in a low tone, for the first dance. It
was not so low but that I overheard, and I heard, too, the tone of
regret with which she told him it was already promised. I might have
thought the tone only a tribute to politeness had I not caught her
glance, which said louder than any words, "I had much rather it were
you," and I said to myself, "Either mademoiselle is a most dangerous
coquette, or the chevalier has already succeeded in at least winning
her interest," and for a moment it sprang to the tip of my hasty
tongue to release her from her promise. But I shut my lips firmly
before the words were out.

"Ce garçon-çà! The second, then?"

I turned away my head and did not willingly hear any more, but I could
not quite help overhearing the chevalier once again, in a tone
intended to be quite cutting, and for that reason, no doubt, more
distinct:

"If mademoiselle's dances are not taken for the entire afternoon,
perhaps she will be so kind as to say which one she will graciously
grant me?"

I did not hear her reply; but I heard his joyful response to it:

"A thousand thanks, ma belle reine; au troisième, donc!"

I was in two minds through the rest of the meal: should I hold
mademoiselle to her promise, which was, evidently, irksome to her, or
should I free her from it? I resolved, finally, that the dance was
fairly mine and I would hold her to it. Yet when the music sounded and
the line was forming I was a little late in reaching her side, for I
had been following the chevalier's example and getting my dances
promised ahead, and Mademoiselle Chouteau had been so full of her
little French coquetries I had found it hard to get away in time to
claim mademoiselle's hand. I found her tapping her little foot
impatiently, and an ominous line between her dark eyes. I made my
apologies humbly, but mademoiselle was coldly scornful.

"Had I known monsieur would find it so irksome to keep his engagement
I could have released him. There were others who would have
appreciated the honor, since it is my duty to open the dance."

"It is inexcusable," I murmured, "but it was unavoidable"; and without
waiting for further recriminations I led her to the head of the line.

I had never seen the minuet danced with more grace and spirit. These
Frenchmen have winged feet, and though I knew my steps well and had
not thought myself particularly awkward, yet now it seemed to me
impossible, with my great size, not to seem, to mademoiselle at least,
a clumsy giant. It made me more conscious of my awkwardness that I was
leading the line with mademoiselle, reine de la fête, and a perfect
fairy for grace, and that, opposite us, with Mademoiselle Chouteau,
was the chevalier, full of Parisian airs, which looked a little
ridiculous to me, but were, no doubt, the admiration of all the
maidens.

And if anything could have made me more clumsy it was the accident
that befell me in the sword-figure. It fell to my lot to cross swords
with the chevalier, and I cannot be sure that he did it wilfully, yet
so it seemed to me. By a twist of his wrist he loosened my sword from
its grasp, and it fell clattering to the ground at the very feet of my
lady. Had I been expecting anything more than the usual crossing of
points my grasp would have been firmer, and I really think I was not
to blame. Yet I was covered with confusion, and as I stooped to pick
it up, necessarily delaying the progress of my lady, who was leading
her line of maidens under the arch of swords, I glanced at her face,
expecting nothing less for my gaucherie than the mocking smile I had
learned to dread. To my amazement, my glance was met with the sweetest
of smiles, and it was the chevalier who winced this time.

"I hope monsieur will pardon the chevalier's awkwardness," she said;
"he is, no doubt, more at home in a Parisian ball-room than at a
rustic dance on the turf."

After that, you may be sure, I carried myself proudly, and so elated
was I by her unexpected sweetness that I lost all sense of
awkwardness, and I began to hear murmurs of admiration that I knew
were intended for my ears, and lent wings to my feet, also.

"A handsome pair!" "What grace!" "He carries his head like a grand
seigneur!" and Mademoiselle Chouteau was wicked enough, as we crossed
in the dance, to look up at me and whisper saucily:

"I die with impatience, monsieur, for la troisième!"




CHAPTER VI

WHIPPOORWILLS

    "Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario?"


It was in the third dance, in the middle of an intricate figure (and
Mademoiselle Chouteau was proving herself a most bewitching partner),
that I suddenly discovered that neither mademoiselle nor the chevalier
was dancing; nor could I see them anywhere, though my glance shot
rapidly into every leafy nook and corner.

An unreasoning terror seized me, and with all my might I tried to
think what I could do. Should I leave my partner and fly in pursuit,
as I longed to do, the figure would be broken up, and should my fears
prove unfounded I could never again hold up my head among the St.
Louis maidens. Yet I thought if I waited until the dance was over
there would be time for the worst to happen, and I had promised not to
let mademoiselle out of my sight. Now did I curse my folly (with many
of my big _d_-inventions) that, since I had come to the picnic solely
to look after mademoiselle, I had allowed myself to make any
engagement with any other maiden, however bewitching.

In my agony of indecision, though I was still going through the
figure in a dazed fashion, great drops of perspiration started out on
my brow. At that moment there came a pause in the dance, while the
figure was changing, and above the babble of talk that broke forth I
heard the distant call of a whippoorwill. It was enough. I bent low
and whispered to my partner:

"Mademoiselle, do you think you could invent a pretext by which we
could both be excused from the dance? Could you be taken suddenly
ill?"

Mademoiselle Chouteau looked up at me quickly; I think for a moment
she thought I wanted to get her away for a cozy flirtation in a quiet
little nook, such as some of the other young couples seemed to be
enjoying. But when she saw my anxious face she spoke quickly, with the
prompt resource I have ever noted in young maidens:

"Certainly, monsieur! In a moment you will see me grow quite pale, and
then we will go and ask Gabriel Cerré and Marguerite Papin to take our
places."

She was as good as her word: in a moment she really seemed to me to
turn pale, and she said, quite distinctly, so that those standing near
could hear:

"I am very tired, monsieur; I will have to ask you to excuse me from
dancing. Perhaps we can persuade another couple to take our places."

I think Gabriel Cerré and Mademoiselle Papin were a little loath to
give up their pleasant chat, but on Mademoiselle Chouteau's
representing that the dance would be broken up, and she was really not
able to take another step, they very amiably consented to take our
places.

Then I had to explain to Mademoiselle Chouteau, very hurriedly, the
reason for my strange request, and in doing so I was compelled to
confide to her somewhat of my fears, and beg her to be silent if any
one should notice that I too had disappeared. She proved a good ally,
and, on my expressing my perplexity as to where to look, she suddenly
remembered that she had seen mademoiselle and the chevalier, as the
dance was beginning, enter the woodland path that led on around the
lake to Rock Spring at its head.

"A favorite resort for young people, and especially," she added slyly,
"les amants."

The dance had been moving rapidly and it was not yet over; they could
not be so far away but that I could overtake them, and I felt a little
relieved. Yet I must see Mademoiselle Chouteau disposed of among her
friends; I could not leave her discourteously, and every second of
delay fretted me greatly. When that was accomplished, I caught Yorke's
eye (for he had arrived very shortly after us, and having made himself
generally useful at the déjeuner, was now watching the dancers with
grinning delight), and motioned to him to follow me.

I slipped into the woodland path, and Yorke did not keep me waiting
long. As rapidly as possible I told him my suspicions, and bade him
slip into the woods where the horses were tethered and bring his own
horse and Fatima by some roundabout way, so as to be unseen, and
follow me on the path to the head of the lake.

It was a comfort to feel that Yorke would not be many minutes behind
me, for impatient as I often was with his pranks and his eternal grin,
I knew him to be a good fighter, and true as steel. Still more of a
comfort was it to know Fatima would be within calling of my whistle,
for I knew not into what I was going, and if those dark forests
overhanging the cliffs on the opposite shore of the lake were as full
of the treacherous savages as the frequent call of the whippoorwills
had led me to think, I might find that the only road to safety for
both mademoiselle and myself was on Fatima's back.

So it was with better courage (though I will not deny that my heart
was beating fast) that I set off at a round pace on the woodland path
toward the head of the lake. I had ever an eye for the beauties of
nature, and an ear attuned to all its voices, yea, and a nostril for
its sweet odors, and engrossed as I was (rushing on lest I might be
too late, yet dreading every step that I fall into some ambush of
whippoorwills), I still could not but note how softly the November sun
fell through the half-bare branches, flecking the path with shine and
shadow; how glowing cardinals and flaming orioles, not yet started
south, flitted through the trees in rollicking sport; and how the
sweet odor of dying leaves mingled with the soft call of
wood-thrushes. The cottonwoods had laid down a path of gold for me to
walk upon, but, fortunately, it had rained the night before and the
leaves were still damp and so did not rustle to my tread.

I had hurried on at a breathless pace, following the path that in its
turn followed the windings of the lake for nearly a mile, when
suddenly I heard voices at no great distance ahead of me. I stopped
for a moment, my heart beating so fast I could scarce listen. Yes, it
was a man's voice and a maiden's, speaking in low tones as if for each
other's ears alone, and I did not doubt it was mademoiselle and the
chevalier.

Now it was most distasteful to me to think of playing eavesdropper,
and I was of half a mind to stop where I was and wait until they had
finished what they had to say and were ready to return. I would at
least be near enough at hand to prevent a capture should it be
attempted. But as I waited, mademoiselle's voice was suddenly raised,
and I heard her say in a tone of pain:

"Do not make me distrust my guardian! I can believe no wrong of him!
He has been the only father I have known."

I caught nothing of the chevalier's reply but the two words
"interested motives"; but I thought, since it was evidently no tender
interchange of sentiment to which I would have to listen, but the
rascal was maligning my good friend Dr. Saugrain, it was my duty to
listen with all my ears. I crept forward softly, fearing lest a
crackling twig or a dry leaf might betray my presence, and fearing,
too, since I could not discover whence the voices came, that I might
come upon them unawares and so reveal myself.

Which I came very near doing. Another step, and I would have stepped
over the brink of a low bluff which encircled a cup-like depression. A
cluster of tall oaks rose from the center of the little glen thus
formed, sheltering a silvery fountain gushing from a great rock and
then, in a bright rivulet, dancing merrily over moss and stones to the
lake.

This, then, was Rock Spring, and the source of Chouteau's Pond! A
sylvan retreat indeed for lovers, and I had heard it was much
frequented by them. A fringe of crimson sumac-bushes screened the edge
of the bluff and effectually screened me from two people just below
me. I liked not to be spying, but I felt that duty and honor both, and
my pledged word to the doctor, demanded that I keep mademoiselle in
sight. So I cautiously leaned forward and looked.

Mademoiselle was seated on a boulder with her face turned toward me
and uplifted to the chevalier, who was standing with his back to me,
looking down on her. Her dark eyes were wide and startled, full of
surprise and pain; I was not sure but there were tears in them. Her
straight brows were drawn together in a deep furrow, and the scarlet
lips, usually so like a Cupid's bow, were set and stern. I wondered
what the chevalier could be saying in that low voice of his to move
her so deeply. As he finished, mademoiselle sprang to her feet,
generous indignation in her flashing eyes and ringing tones.

"I can never believe it! Either I have no such prospects, or he has
some good reason for not telling me yet. I will never doubt his truth
and honesty!"

Then I heard the chevalier's reply, low and distinct:

"Mademoiselle, your friends in France doubt both the friends of your
father and mother. They have sent me here to find you and bring you
back with me to your rich estates, to your rank and position, and to
the friends who love you. But they know well Dr. Saugrain will never
let go his hold on you, until he can get control of your property
himself, and so they have instructed me to use all caution and
secrecy.

"In the woods yonder, on the other side of the lake, is a trusty
escort to ride to Cape Girardeau, where a boat is waiting to take you
to New Orleans. In New Orleans is a ship ready to sail the moment
mademoiselle puts her foot upon its deck, and in a little more than a
month you will be in Paris, among friends who will receive you with
outstretched arms, surrounded by every luxury, living the life of
grande dame as you ought to live, among the great nobles where you
rightfully belong, and not in this rude, rough country among Indians
and boors. And mademoiselle will permit me to add, there is no great
lady in France so fitted by nature to adorn her high station as she.
She will have all Paris at her feet. Come with me now, mademoiselle!
There is no time to be lost! Any moment we may be interrupted and it
may be too late."

My eyes did not leave mademoiselle's face through all this long
speech, and I saw her expression slowly change. The generous
indignation was still there, but I saw that the picture that he
presented of the life that awaited her in Paris began to fascinate
her. She spoke slowly and doubtfully:

"I will tell Dr. and Madame Saugrain all you have told me, and if it
is right, they will let me go with you. I will not doubt my friends."

The villain saw that he was gaining ground:

"They are not your friends! They are your bitterest foes. They are
keeping you from everything that will make your life grand and
beautiful, with the hope of their own gain some day. They will never
let you go! If home and Paris and friends and wealth and rank and
power are to be won at all, it must be at once. Five minutes more may
be too late. That boy [with infinite scorn] may have discovered your
absence and come to seek you."

Suddenly the chevalier dropped on one knee, his hand on his heart. I
turned quickly away (for I would not listen to what I feared would be
a declaration of love), and, as I turned, I saw Yorke coming up the
path, leading the two horses, who were picking their way as cautiously
as if they knew the occasion demanded the utmost secrecy. I motioned
to Yorke to leave the horses where they were (I knew they were so
trained they would stand perfectly still without tying) and to come
silently to me. I felt that the moment of rescue could not be far
distant.

He had crept cautiously up just as the chevalier ceased speaking. I
was intent on noting the position of the horses and forming a plan of
rescue, and so did not observe Yorke, or I might have prevented what
followed. He had stolen up softly behind me, and, unconscious that he
was on the edge of a bluff, had stepped a step beyond me. Of course he
went over at once, heels over head, turning a complete somersault,
and alighted erect, astride the neck of the kneeling chevalier.

At his terrified cry I turned quickly, just in time to see him alight;
and if it had been a time for laughing it would have been a funny
sight indeed: the look of startled terror on mademoiselle's face
gradually changing in spite of herself to one of convulsive merriment;
the chevalier, his nose ground in the dust, squirming helplessly and
sputtering vigorously in French; and, lastly, the big black, the white
balls of his eyes almost starting from his head in amazement and
fright, and a ceaseless torrent of ejaculations pouring through his
white teeth!

"Oh! Oh, Lordy! Oh, my gracious! Oh, de good Lord! Oh, massy!"

Yet he made no effort to rise, and I began to suspect he was enjoying
the situation, for the more vigorously the Frenchman sputtered the
louder the negro bellowed.

It was time for me to interpose, but I wished to avoid the appearance
of having been spying on them, with Yorke, from above, otherwise I
could easily have leaped down the low bluff. Looking around hastily, I
discovered, what I had not noted before, that the main path led around
the foot of the bluff into the little glen from below. I had followed
a branch of it in coming to the top of the bluff. I ran quickly down
to the lower entrance of the glen, but there I stopped a moment to
assume an air as of one leisurely strolling. I did not pretend to see
the group until I was well into the glen where I could also be seen.
Then I struck an attitude of intense surprise for mademoiselle's
benefit (who by this time had caught sight of me), and when I had
sufficiently recovered from the surprise for utterance, I spoke to
Yorke in tones of stern command:

"What are you doing, sir, on monsieur's back? Have you taken him for a
horse? Or a donkey? Off, sir, this moment, and make your humble
apologies to the chevalier."

Yorke was not much afraid of my stern tone. Still yelling bloody
murder, he contrived a most audacious wink with the eye next to me,
but he tumbled off slowly, and then I hastened to help the chevalier
to his feet. He was a sorry spectacle, and I saw mademoiselle's look
of suppressed amusement change to pity and concern. Blood was gushing
from his nose all over his fine clothes, and his face was so begrimed
and gory it would have been impossible to guess it was the dapper
Parisian.

But he was in such a blind rage that for once he ignored his clothes.
Stanching the blood as best he could with his flimsy lace
handkerchief, he poured out a torrent of abuse in mingled French and
English, on Yorke and on me, but principally on me. I tried to
interpose a polite word of regret, but he would not listen to me.

"You air a sneak, a cowaird, sir! You spy on mademoiselle and me!
Cowair-r-r-d! I will have the satisfaction! Sacré Dieu! You have no
doubt told the negro to leap upon my back! I will have r-r-r-evenge!"

And as if reminded by that last word, he turned to mademoiselle and
spoke in French:

"Fly with me at once, mademoiselle! You will not stay to be at the
mercy of a sneaking spy. See! I will call my red friends. Do not be
afraid! They will carry you off, but I will be with you, and we will
find horses and fly."

And without waiting for an answer he turned and imitated three times
the call of a whippoorwill.

I knew what that meant--that in a moment the Osages would be upon us;
and hardly had his first call left his lips before I too had turned
and uttered the shrill whistle that always brought Fatima to my side.

As I knew, the last whippoorwill call had not died away when from the
woods on the opposite side of the lake, silently, swiftly stole first
one dark figure and then another, until at least a dozen savages,
armed and painted, were bearing down upon us with the fleetness of
deer. In a moment more they would be upon us, and neither Yorke's life
nor mine would be worth the asking, and, what was far harder to
contemplate, mademoiselle would be captive in their hands.

She stood for a moment petrified with horror at the sight of the
swiftly advancing savages, and then she turned to me in an agony of
entreaty.

"Oh, fly, fly at once!" she said, "you and your black man, before it
is too late."

I turned to Yorke:

"Go as mademoiselle bids you; get your horse and fly."

Yorke tried to remonstrate, but I would not let him open his lips.

"No; you will only hinder me now. If worse comes to worst, you can at
least bear the news. Go at once!" And without waiting for further
orders, Yorke turned, scrambled up the face of the bluff, and was off.

"But you will go, too!" she cried, as I turned again to her.

"And leave you?"

"Oh, do not mind me! They will not hurt me!" And then, as I stood
perfectly still, with my pistols ready, but with no intention of
leaving her to the tender mercies of the savages and the savage
mercies of the chevalier, she grew desperate, grasping my arm and
trying with her feeble strength to push me toward safety.

"I implore you," she entreated, "if you have any feeling of friendship
for me, fly before it is too late!"

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I stir not one step from this spot unless you
go with me."

"I will but hinder you," she cried, "and prevent all possibility of
escape. Oh, do not stay for me!"

"Mademoiselle," said the chevalier, who had been enjoying this scene,
with no attempt at concealing his relish for it, "go with monsieur,
since he desires it."

Even as he spoke, the first of the Osages darted into the glen; the
others were close at his heels; but at the same moment from the
entrance of the glen nearer to us came the thunder of hoofs, and
Fatima was at my side, her eyes flashing, her hoofs pawing the earth,
her nostrils snorting with rage: for well she guessed that painted
savages meant danger to her master.

I was on her back in a moment, and, stooping, lifted mademoiselle
swiftly to the crupper in front of me. Holding her there with my left
arm, I wheeled Fatima with the one word of command, "Go!" and turning
my head as she flew over the rough earth, I leveled my pistol at the
chevalier.

"Do not stir, monsieur, at the peril of your life!" I called to him,
and kept him covered as we flew. I knew the savages were running to
try to head me off but I paid no attention to them until, rounding a
great boulder, the chevalier (his face ghastly with rage and
disappointed revenge, for so sudden had it all been he had had no time
even to draw his pistol to prevent the rescue until too late) was out
of my range, as we were out of his. Then, turning my pistol swiftly on
the Osage in the lead,--none too soon, for his rifle was leveled at
us,--I fired. The poor fellow fell forward with a wild yell that
turned my heart sick; yet none the less, the others rushing on with
their wild whoops to avenge him, I drew my second pistol and fired
once more.

But I knew not with what result, for mademoiselle, with a convulsive
shudder and a look of mortal woe, cried out:

"You have killed the chevalier!"

"No, mademoiselle," I answered grimly; "I have killed the poor
whippoorwill you asked me for"; and then had all I could do without
paying any more attention to the savages, for mademoiselle had fainted
and lay like one dead on my arm, her white face upturned to mine, her
long black lashes sweeping the marble cheeks, and the dark curls
falling backward from the white brow and floating on the wind, as
Fatima flashed along the woodland path like a swallow on the wing.




CHAPTER VII

I TWINE CHRISTMAS GREENS

    "Woman's at best a contradiction still."


Yorke had reached the picnic-ground just long enough ahead of us to
create pandemonium. He had reported both mademoiselle and me as killed
and scalped by this time, and a band of a hundred savages, with the
chevalier at their head, on their way to the picnic.

The massacre of 1780 was still fresh enough in the memory of St. Louis
folk to make this seem no improbable tale, and the utmost confusion
ensued. Some of the young men, with Josef Papin and Gabriel Cerré at
their head, were for going at once to our rescue; but the maidens
implored, and Yorke averred it was too late, and reported the savages
in such numbers as would make such an undertaking only foolhardy. (And
by this you must not judge Yorke a villain and a coward; he would have
been the first to volunteer and the loudest to urge on the others, but
he had heard Fatima's hoofs behind him, and knew we were safe, and,
rascal that he was, could not resist his practical joke nor his negro
love of producing a great effect.)

Into this wild pandemonium of women screaming unintelligible cries to
each other as they hastily got together their belongings and packed
them into charrettes and saddle-bags, amid sobbings and wailings, and
men shouting hoarsely to mustang and pony as they struggled with bit
and bridle, mademoiselle and I rode; and their joy at seeing us alive,
and our hair still on our heads, knew no bounds.

I told them the true state of the case--that there were not more than
a dozen or twenty of the savages at the most, and I hardly thought the
chevalier would bring them down upon us. Yet, knowing that he might be
in a mood for risking everything to recapture mademoiselle, I
recommended that the men form themselves into two bands to ride in the
front and in the rear, with the maidens between the two, and to start
at once. We could go no faster, of course, than the charrettes could
go, and the savages could easily overtake us if they desired; but I
did not believe they would dare, for our numbers were greater than
theirs, and the young men were all well armed.

Mademoiselle had recovered from her fainting, but was still white and
weak. And because I did not believe she was able to sit La Bette, I
recommended that she ride in Josef Papin's charrette with Mademoiselle
Chouteau and let Josef ride her horse. We two, young Papin and I,
brought up the rear; and I did not see mademoiselle again except once,
for a moment, when we were crossing La Petite Rivière, and I rode up
by her side to see that the charrette went steadily through the water.
Her head was on Mademoiselle Chouteau's shoulder, who was supporting
her with her arm. Her eyes were closed, and Mademoiselle Chouteau
whispered to me, "She is asleep!" but at that she opened her eyes
quickly and looked up at me. She tried to smile, but I think the
terror of it all was still strongly with her. She said:

"I have not thanked you, monsieur; but I know I owe you my liberty, if
not my life, and I am not ungrateful."

It was very sweetly said, but there was a horrible fear at my heart
that she would rather have been captured by the redskins, and gone
away with the Chevalier Le Moyne, than to have been rescued by me.

Just at the stockade we met a party of horsemen. Dr. Saugrain and my
captain were in the lead with Black Hawk, who had reported Red Jean
with a band of Osages lurking in the woods, and they were on their way
to clear them out, lest they molest the picnic or the village. Amid a
babble of excitement, every one trying to talk at once, our tale was
told. And as Dr. Saugrain and my captain thought it was best to go on
and try to capture the chevalier and his band, and as our escort was
no longer needed for the maidens, I turned my horse and rode back with
them to find the chevalier.

I confess it would have done me good to bring him in a captive, but I
was doomed to disappointment. We scoured the woods, and the only
traces we found of him and his band were the prints of horses' hoofs
going south,--a dozen horses, I should think,--and, just where Rock
Spring bubbles up in a silver fountain, a torn and bloody lace
handkerchief. I gave the good doctor a full account of the
conversation I had listened to, and he ground his teeth with rage at
the chevalier's duplicity. He was much touched at Pelagie's chivalrous
defense of him; yet, as delicately as I could, I tried to tell him
that at the very last I feared the chevalier had succeeded in
insinuating some seeds of doubt and suspicion in mademoiselle's mind.
The doctor and my captain both agreed that it was time to tell Pelagie
the full truth of the matter. She should know all about herself and
her expectations, and who were her friends and who her foes.

I was curious to see what effect the revelation would have upon her;
or it could hardly be called a revelation, since the chevalier had
already revealed it--rather the confirmation of his tale. But in that,
too, I was doomed to disappointment. She was ill for several days and
confined to her room,--the effect of the excitement she had passed
through,--and before she was well enough to be about again, my captain
and I had set off, with Black Hawk as guide and Yorke as factotum, to
make a visit to Daniel Boone at his home on the Missouri River.

We found the grand old man as happy as a child in the beautiful home
he had at last made for himself and his family at the very outposts of
civilization. We were gone four weeks, exploring the woods and
mountains and rolling prairies of the beautiful country, and coming
home on a great flatboat down the swiftly rolling Missouri, past Fort
Bellefontaine, where the Missouri empties into the Mississippi (where
we were royally entertained by the Spanish commandant), and so at
last by the Mississippi back to St. Louis.

I found myself trembling with a mingling of fearful and pleasant
anticipations as I rode up the steep bluff on Fatima's back, and we
took the Rue de l'Église to Dr. Saugrain's house.

It was the day before Christmas, and I had not remembered it; but as
we passed the church in the rear of Auguste Chouteau's place, through
the open doors we could see young men and maidens winding long
garlands of Christmas greens and festooning them over doors and
windows, while shouts of merry laughter floated out to us. I was for
drawing rein and going in to help with the trimming; but my captain
(who, I believe, was shy of the maidens) insisted we must first pay
our respects to our host.

The little doctor met us at the gate with a beaming face, and when
Narcisse and Yorke had led away our horses we entered once more the
long, low room we had first entered nearly two months before. The
windows were no longer open, looking out into cool green foliage, with
white muslin curtains stirring in the breeze, and there was no maiden
in a white robe, with the blue ribbon of a guitar across her
shoulders, singing creole love-songs. Instead, crimson damask curtains
were falling over the white ones, and a great fire of logs was blazing
in one end of the room, looking cozy and cheery enough on this crisp
December day.

Yet, in spite of its coziness, I thought it had a dreary look. Leon
was lying before the fire, and though he looked at me a little
doubtfully, as he slowly rose and shook himself, I felt a rush of
friendliness toward him, and showed it so plainly, as I called him to
me, that at last he capitulated, and we have ever since been the best
of friends.

Then Madame Saugrain came running in, flushed and rosy from the
kitchen, where she had been superintending the baking of Christmas
tarts and croquecignolles, and bringing with her appetizing whiffs of
roasting and frying. My captain laughingly told her that the good
smells made him hungry.

"You shall come and see," she said; and led us into the great kitchen,
where, on tables as white as snow, were piled heaps of golden-brown
croquecignolles, cut in curious patterns, and the big black cook was
dropping still more into the kettle of boiling fat, and bringing out
puffy and wondrously shaped birds and beasts. Narcisse, on his knees
on the hearth, was turning two great fowls suspended before the fire,
from which oozed such rich and savory gravy as made one smack his
lips. On another table a huge venison pasty and tarts and cakes of
many kinds were temptingly arrayed, and madame's pride in her
housewifely preparations for the Christmas feasting was pretty to see.
She would have us taste her croquecignolles and little cakes, and had
a glass of gooseberry wine brought out of the store-room for each of
us, and we drank it standing in the kitchen, and helping ourselves
from the pile of croquecignolles.

But kind and charming as was madame, and toothsome as were her cakes,
and much as her gooseberry wine tickled our palates, I was yet on
nettles to be gone and join the young people at the church. Whether
madame guessed it or whether it was just one of her kindly thoughts,
she said in her motherly way:

"But, my son, you should be at the church. The maidens will be vexed
with me if I keep you talking to an old woman, when they might be
having your help with the wreaths."

"If you think they need me?" and I tried to look as if only a stern
sense of duty could induce me to go.

Madame Saugrain laughed, with the merry twinkle in her eye that made
her as captivating as a young maiden.

"Allons donc!" she said. "Quel garçon!" And with my best bow to her
and a salute to my captain and the good doctor, I whistled to Leon to
accompany me and strode quickly down the road toward the little
church.

But as I neared it I slackened my pace, and but for very shame I would
have turned and fled again to the shelter of madame's motherly smile.
I had not seen Mademoiselle Pelagie since the day of the picnic, and I
was much in doubt whether she regarded me as her rescuer to be
esteemed with grateful and friendly feeling, or as the cause of the
loss of a dear friend, perhaps a lover. I felt very sure I would be
able to tell at our first meeting in which light I was held, and,
screwing up all my courage, I made a bold dash for the church door.

Scarcely had my shadow darkened the doorway when I was surrounded by
an eager group, saluting me with every form of friendly welcome back
to St. Louis; but the face I looked for was not among them.
Mademoiselle Chouteau and Mademoiselle Papin seized me, one by either
arm, and led me to a great pile of greens, and would have set me at
once to work in tying them to long ropes. But I begged them to permit
me first to pay my respects to the rest of my friends; for over in a
dark corner I had seen Pelagie at work, with two or three young men
around her, supplying her with greens for her nimble fingers to weave
into garlands, and she had not come with the others to greet me. I
thought at least that little courtesy was due me, for, whether she
liked or resented my rescuing her, I had risked much in the doing of
it.

I was filled with bitterness toward her, but could have no more kept
away from her than the moth from the flame. My bitterness now gave me
courage, and I sauntered up to her with what I flattered myself was
quite as grand an air as the chevalier's might have been. Hand on the
hilt of my sword, hat doffed, with its plume sweeping the ground, I
bowed low.

"If mademoiselle has not forgotten an old acquaintance, will she
permit me respectfully to salute her?"

She had been seated on a low seat with the side of her face toward me,
and may or may not have been aware of my approach. As I spoke, she
rose quickly and turned toward me, the rich blood rushing over her
face and neck for a minute, and receding and leaving her almost as
white as when I had held her in my arms and she had thought the
chevalier killed.

She did not speak, but she held out her hand, and I bowed low over
it, and barely touched it with my lips. The young men (among whom was
of course Josef Papin) crowded around me with friendly greetings, and
for a few minutes we talked fast, they asking and I answering many
questions about Daniel Boone and our adventures in the far West.

I did not look at mademoiselle as we talked, but--it is a way I
have--I saw her all the time. I think it must be because I am so much
taller than most people that I can see all that goes on around me (or,
perhaps more truly, beneath me) without seeming to look. I saw
mademoiselle regard me with a strange glance, as if she were looking
at some one she did not know, and was trying to explain him to
herself. Then she sat down and quietly went on with her work, her head
bent, and not looking at me again.

I talked on for a few minutes, and then turned to make my adieus to
mademoiselle. She looked up at me with a friendly smile and I saw,
what I had not noticed before, that she was paler and thinner than
when I had seen her last, and there was a look in her dark eyes as of
hidden trouble.

"Will you not stay and help us, monsieur?" she said in that voice
which, from the first time I had heard it, had always seemed to me the
sweetest in the world. Of course it set my silly pulses to beating
faster, but I answered steadily and with an air of cold courtesy:

"I regret that I cannot accept mademoiselle's invitation; I have
promised my services elsewhere"; and with another low bow I turned on
my heel and, holding my head high, went back to weave garlands with
Mademoiselle Chouteau and Marguerite Papin.

And because I was so big and they were so petite, they delighted in
ordering me around (and I delighted in obeying), and they made me
mount to the highest beams to suspend garlands, and applauded me when
I arranged them to suit their fancy, and laughed at me or scolded me
when I was awkward and stupid, until my back ached and my heart grew
light; for I forgot for a time that mademoiselle, for whom I had
risked my life, had not even cared to give me a friendly welcome back
to St. Louis.

The last garland was fastened in its place, the last stray bit of
evergreen and rubbish swept from the doors, the church garnished and
beautiful to behold. There was the noisy bustle of preparing for
departure and the calling back and forth:

"Be sure you are at midnight mass, Gabriel."

"Au revoir at midnight mass, Pelagie."

"I will see you at midnight mass, monsieur."

And for me there was a moment of embarrassment. Was it my duty to
offer myself as escort to any of the maidens? For though the hour was
early it was already dark. Or, since I was going direct to
mademoiselle's house, would I be expected to accompany her? I glanced
over to her corner; she had already left the church. I looked through
the open doorway; she was walking down the Rue de l'Église with Josef
Papin.

"Mademoiselle Chouteau," I said, "may I have the pleasure of walking
home with you?"

But all the way up the Rue de l'Église and down the steep incline of
the Rue Bonhomme, and up the Rue Royale to the great barred gate that
led into the stone-walled inclosure of Pierre Chouteau, while
Mademoiselle Chouteau, with her nimble tongue, was flitting from one
bit of village gossip to another, like a butterfly among the flowers,
I was saying bitterly to myself:

"And she had even the discourtesy to walk away without waiting to see
whether the guest of her house was going home or not."

It was a long mile and a half from Pierre Chouteau's house to Dr.
Saugrain's, and it was a frosty December evening. It was only five
o'clock, but the stars were out, and through the leafless trees I
could see lights twinkling from the houses as I passed. Faster and
faster I walked, as my thoughts grew more and more bitter toward
mademoiselle, and by the time I had reached the cheery living-room,
with its blazing lightwood fire, I was in such a glow from exercise
and indignation as made the fire all unwelcome.

I had quite made up my mind, on my long walk, that mademoiselle should
find me as cool as herself; and through the evening meal I scarce
looked at her. But if I had fancied mademoiselle suffering from some
secret trouble, I changed my mind at supper. She sat between my
captain and her guardian, and was in such merry mood that she had my
captain alternately laughing uproariously at her wit, and making fine
speeches about her beauty, in a fashion that quite amazed me, for I
had ever considered him a sober-minded fellow, above all such light
ways.

Nor did she refrain from a slight stab at me whenever it was possible
to get it in. I took no more notice of these than I could help, yet I
felt my cheeks, already burning from my frosty walk, grow hotter and
hotter, until the very tips of my ears were on fire; and I felt it the
unkindest cut of all when she said, with her pretty accent and air of
polite condescension to a very young boy:

"'Tis a long walk from Mademoiselle Chouteau's, monsieur, but it has
given you une grande couleur. What would not our St. Louis belles give
for such roses!"

I turned toward her just long enough to say gravely, "I thank you,
mademoiselle," and then renewed at once my conversation with madame.
But I could see from the tail of my eye that she had the grace to
blush also, and to be ashamed of her petty persecutions, for she left
me to myself the remainder of the meal.




CHAPTER VIII

I GO TO MIDNIGHT MASS

    "Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
      And it stings you for your pains;
    Grasp it like a man of mettle,
      And it soft as silk remains."


In our room, making ready for midnight mass, which all the family,
including guests, were expected to attend, my captain told me what Dr.
Saugrain had said to him about mademoiselle. He had told her fully her
history and expectations (save only her exact rank and title, which he
had thought best still to withhold from her), and the plans of her
friends for her future. He had also told her very plainly that he had
suspected the chevalier of just such an attempt at her capture as he
had made, and for that reason had been so unwilling that she should go
to Chouteau's Pond.

Mademoiselle had listened, and had asked him many questions, and had
at last said that she could not doubt the truth of her guardian, but
she thought it possible the chevalier was honest also, and misjudged
Dr. Saugrain because he did not know him. The doctor had tried to
convince her of the chevalier's duplicity, and showed her the letter
of warning from France concerning him; but the doctor was not sure
that mademoiselle was convinced, and he had determined, as soon as
safe convoy could be found, to send her to her friends in Paris.

In the meantime mademoiselle did not seem happy, and the good doctor
was much puzzled to know whether it was, as he hoped, regret at
leaving his wife and himself, who had been father and mother to her,
or, as he feared, a secret regret for the chevalier, and a lurking
doubt of the Saugrains.

And now all my bitterness toward mademoiselle had suddenly vanished. I
seemed to understand fully the state of mind the poor girl was in, and
there was no room in my heart for anything but a great pity for her.
The remembrance of her face as I had seen it when the chevalier was
talking to her, the generous indignation changing to doubt, and then
the gradual kindling of a desire for the life depicted to her by the
chevalier (and, perhaps, a touch of a softer emotion for the chevalier
himself),--it was like reading an open book, and I said to myself:

"Mademoiselle is torn by conflicting emotions: her love for her
friends here whom she is to leave, and longing for the life in Paris
which may soon be hers, and, perhaps, love for the chevalier, whom she
feels she ought to despise. What does it matter if she sometimes vents
her irritation with herself upon me, whom she regards as but a boy? I
shall not resent it; but if I find a chance I will try to let her know
I understand."

But I had no chance on the way to mass. Madame Saugrain seemed to
take it for granted that Captain Clarke and the doctor would walk with
mademoiselle, and I was her peculiar property; and I suppose I had
given her the right to think so by always pointedly devoting myself to
her.

It was a solemn service at that midnight hour: the bare little church
made beautiful with our garlands of green, and the twinkle of many
candles around the altar; the heads bowed in prayer; the subdued
murmur of voices making the responses; the swelling note of triumph in
the Gregorian chant; and then coming out under the quiet stars and
exchanging greetings with friend and neighbor.

And last of all the quiet walk home, and, to my surprise, I was
walking by mademoiselle's side. I was surprised, for it was not of my
arranging, and it set my blood to leaping to think it was possibly of
hers. I made up my mind that no word of mine should mar the
friendliness of the act, and I plunged quickly into a lively
discussion of the ball that was to take place at Madame Chouteau's on
Christmas evening. But she interrupted me almost in the beginning,
and, as was her habit when she talked with me, she spoke in French. It
was only rarely she tried her English, though, when she did, it was
with such a witching grace I could have wished it oftener.

"Monsieur," she said, "I have been so unmaidenly as to inflict my
company upon you for the walk home when you had not solicited it, but
I had a reason for so doing. I hope," as if a sudden thought had
struck her, "I have not interfered with other plans. Had you desired
to escort some one else home?"

"Certainly not," I said coolly, for I was unaccountably irritated by
the suggestion. "And I did not solicit the honor of being your escort
only because I had reason to suppose it would not be agreeable to
you."

"It was for that I am here without an invitation," she answered
quickly. "I have many times given you occasion to think me entirely
without manners. I have often been very rude to you. I wish to ask
your pardon for my silly speeches at the table, and for all my
unamiability, and to assure you I have not forgotten your great
services to me, and I am not ungrateful. It is because I have
naturally a very bad temper; and now I believe I am not quite well, I
am so irritable of late."

Several times I had tried to interrupt her; I could not bear to have
her humiliate herself to me (for I was sure it must be a humiliation
to one of her haughty temper). But she would not listen to my
interruptions; she went steadily on with a voice so low and sweet and
sad it quite unmanned me.

Yet because I thought her voice trembled, and in the moonlight (for
the late moon was now well up in the sky) I was sure I saw something
bright glistening on her long lashes, and because my heart was torn
for her, and I was seized with a horrible fear that she might weep,
and I would not know what to do--for all these reasons I spoke quickly
and lightly:

"Mademoiselle, you have the temper of an angel, and if sometimes you
lose it, I fear it is because only an angel with wings could be
patient with a blundering giant like me."

"You are no blunderer, monsieur," she said gravely; "and if you are a
giant, you are one of the good kind who use their strength and their
courage in rescuing distressed damsels. I hope they will not all
requite you as badly as I have done."

"Mademoiselle,"--I spoke as gravely as she had spoken,--"I hope you
will not let the remembrance of any service I have been able to render
you prove a burden to you. I would risk much more in your service, if
the occasion offered, than I risked then, and find my delight in so
doing." And then I added: "I wish you would promise me that if you
should ever need such service again--if you are ever in peril of any
kind, and I am in reach--that you will call on me."

Mademoiselle hesitated a moment before she replied:

"You are heaping coals of fire on my head, monsieur; you are far
kinder to me than I deserve, but--I promise."

"Thank you, mademoiselle; you have given me my reward, and if you were
ever unamiable to me, you have fully atoned. Sometimes I think,
mademoiselle," I went on, inwardly trembling but determined, "that you
did not esteem it so great a service that I rendered you--that perhaps
you had rather not have been rescued. Am I wrong?"

I was looking down on her and watching her narrowly as I spoke. I
could see, even by the uncertain light of the moon, that she went
suddenly white, and there was a perceptible pause before she spoke.

"I hardly think, monsieur, that you have any right to ask me such a
question, but I am going to answer your question by another." And
slowly the color crept back into her face, and grew brighter and
brighter, but she went steadily on. "Did you overhear what the
Chevalier Le Moyne was saying to me in the glen?"

It was my time to wince. Must I confess to eavesdropping? It was hard
enough to do that under any circumstances--but she might think I had
listened too to the chevalier's wooing; it seemed to me I could not so
outrage her sense of delicacy as to let her think that. I had been
reared to revere the truth, but for once I thought it not wrong to
chip a little from its sharp edge.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I will confess to you. I missed you and the
chevalier from the dance. I had been warned that the chevalier might
attempt to carry you off, and I had given my word not to let you out
of my sight. Of course I went at once in search of you, and because I
believed the whippoorwills we had heard in the woods to be signal of
savages, I bade Yorke follow me with the horses. I heard voices, and
in following them came to the top of the bluff encircling the glen. I
would scorn to be an eavesdropper under ordinary circumstances, but a
chance word caught my ear, and when I found the chevalier was not
pleading a lover's cause, but maligning my friend Dr. Saugrain to the
maiden he loves as his own daughter, I felt it my duty to listen. Your
rejection with scorn of the chevalier's base insinuation against Dr.
Saugrain delighted my heart, but when I found that he was continuing
with devilish ingenuity to seek to undermine your faith in your
guardian, I concluded it was time for me to interfere. I told Yorke to
be ready with the horses, and myself went down to the entrance of the
glen, intending to interrupt the chevalier, and use my pledge to your
guardian as authority for requesting your return. Imagine my
astonishment to find Yorke, whom I had left in charge of the horses,
astride the chevalier's neck! What followed you know, and now you know
what I heard and why I listened. Was it wrong?"

Mademoiselle was silent for a minute. I think she was not quite sure
that I had not heard more than I confessed to, but she was willing to
hope I had not.

"Monsieur," she said, "you were no doubt justified in listening, if
one can ever be justified in listening to what is not intended for his
ears. But you have used some harsh expressions concerning the
chevalier, and I think it is possible you wrong him, even as he
wronged my guardian. I do not for one moment believe that my guardian
has had any but the best of motives in keeping from me all knowledge
of my rank and wealth; but I might still be ignorant of it, and I know
not for how much longer, if the chevalier had not revealed it to me.
Dr. Saugrain corroborated all that he has said. He only refuses to
believe that the chevalier was sent by my friends to take me back to
Paris. He accuses him of being in a plot to get possession of my
person and of my wealth. Yet that is exactly the accusation made by
the chevalier against Dr. Saugrain. Dr. Saugrain admits that all the
chevalier said about my present rank and future prospects is true. Why
should not the rest be true--that he had been sent by my friends to
bring me back to Paris? Can you not see that he does not necessarily
seem to me so black as he does to you and my guardian? And it seems a
hard thing to me that he should be a refugee among savages, leaving a
blackened reputation behind him (for there is no one in St. Louis who
does not vilify him), when he was actuated by most chivalrous motives,
however mistaken they might be; for he thought he was rescuing a
wronged maiden from those who had unlawful possession of her, and
restoring her to her friends. I cannot but feel shame and regret that
I should have caused the chevalier so great a journey, at such cost of
money and fatigue, in vain, and that he may be even now suffering all
kinds of exposure from wild savages, if not in peril of his life."

Now here was the opportunity I had desired to assure her of my
sympathy, and tell her that I understood the difficulties in which she
was placed; but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. When I
thought of that villain (for whatever mademoiselle might think, I
never for a moment doubted his villainy) my blood boiled, and,
instead, I blurted out roughly:

"Mademoiselle, 'tis incomprehensible to me how you can for one moment
give the word of such a man as the chevalier, whom you have known so
short a time, equal credence with the word of such a man as Dr.
Saugrain, thorough Christian gentleman in every fiber of his being,
and your lifelong friend and benefactor, your more than father."

But I had spoken beyond my right. Mademoiselle turned on me with cold
fury:

"Monsieur, I have not sought this interview that you should teach me
my duty to my guardian, nor criticize my attitude toward the
chevalier. I am sorry we have allowed the others to get so far ahead
of us, but if we hasten we may overtake them and I will relieve you
from further attendance." Whereupon she started ahead at a round pace.

"Mademoiselle!" I called to her, "I entreat you to listen to me for a
moment."

Mademoiselle stopped and turned toward me, and we stood facing each
other in the middle of the road, alone in the white moonlight, for the
others were quite out of sight around a bend in the road, and there
were no houses near. Below us lay the Mississippi, a white flood in
the moonlight, and far across the river the twinkling lights of
Cahokia, one of them, no doubt, in Mr. Gratiot's house, where I had
first seen mademoiselle. Her eyes were flashing scorn at me now, as
they flashed at me when she knelt with her arms around the great
shaggy brute, and, looking up in my face, called me "Bête!" There was
no doubt about it, mademoiselle could be a little fury at times, and
no doubt she would have liked to call me once more, "Bête!"

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am so unhappy as to be always offending
you. From the moment when I made my descent of Mr. Gratiot's staircase
on the back of your dog, to the present moment, I seem to have been
able to make myself only ridiculous or offensive to you! I beg you to
believe that it is a matter of the deepest regret to me that this
should be so, and to believe that to offend you is ever farthest from
my desire. I realize that I was over-zealous for Dr. Saugrain, whom I
greatly admire and love, and that you certainly had never given me any
right to take such interest in you and your affairs as I just now
displayed. I beg you to believe that I shall never again offend in
like manner, mademoiselle la comtesse."

I saw her face slowly change from its expression of scorn to that same
wondering look I had noticed in the church, as if she were regarding
some one she did not know and was trying to understand. As I uttered
the last words, "mademoiselle la comtesse," another and a swift change
came over her. Her eyes fell, her head drooped. Still standing there
in the moonlight, she suddenly buried her face in her hands and sobs
shook her slender figure.

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" I cried. "I beg, I implore, you to
forgive me. I am, indeed, a brute!" And as she continued to sob
drearily, I was beside myself. What could I do? She looked so like a
little child, and I was so big, to have hurt her seemed cruel and
shameful. I was in a state of desperation. I begged her and implored
her not to weep; but it seemed to me she only sobbed the harder. What
did one do, I wondered, with a weeping maiden? Had it only been a
child I would have known, for I had ever a way with children; but
before a weeping maiden I was helpless.

And still mademoiselle sobbed on, her sobs coming faster and harder,
until, in a paroxysm of grief (or I know not what), she flung herself
upon a low bank beside the road, moaning and crying aloud.

Instantly my courage returned to me. Mademoiselle was acting like a
child; I should treat her as one.

"Mademoiselle," I said firmly, "I cannot permit you to sit upon the
cold ground. I am very, very sorry for you, but you must at once arise
and dry your eyes and tell me what is the matter, so that I can help
you."

Mademoiselle but wept the louder. There was no help for it; at the
risk of being rude I must stop her weeping and make her rise from the
ground.

"Mademoiselle!" I said sternly, "you will oblige me by rising at once
from that cold ground or you will compel me to go for Madame Saugrain
and deliver you into her hands."

For a second, amazement at my tone of authority kept her silent, then
followed a storm of sobs and tears more violent than before.

"I am sorry, mademoiselle," I said, in a tone purposely cool and
cutting (though it was my own heart I stabbed with my coldness), "that
you compel me to treat you _comme enfant_. I shall wait one minute,
and if you do not rise from the ground in that time I shall call your
friends." Then I drew myself up tall and stiff, like a sentinel,
turned my back on mademoiselle, and took out my watch to note the time
by the moon-beams.

There was no answer, but the sobs grew less until there was only an
occasional convulsive catching of the breath. Then came a moment of
quiet. There were neither sobs nor moans. Then a small and plaintive
voice said gently:

"Monsieur, I will be good now."

I turned quickly. Mademoiselle was starting to rise from the low bank;
I grasped her hands and helped her to her feet and looked down upon
her. Her face was flushed with weeping; her hood had fallen back and
her dark curls were in wild disorder; she might have been a beautiful
child who had been naughty but was now subdued. She adjusted her hood
and her curls as best she could, and then walked quietly along beside
me. We neither of us spoke, and we walked rapidly and in a few minutes
overtook the others and came up to the house together, and into the
big living-room, where fresh logs piled in the great chimney-place
were blazing and crackling, and lighting every cranny of the long
room.

Mademoiselle was paler than usual, but otherwise there were no signs
of the tempest she had just been through, and I looked at her with
wonder. Madame Saugrain, noticing her pallor, and thinking she was
cold, put her down on the wooden settle in the chimney-place to warm
by the glowing fire, and bustled about helping Narcisse to bring in
plates of croquecignolles and cups of hot mulled gooseberry wine,
which was much to my satisfaction, for the frosty air and the lateness
of the hour had put a keen edge on an appetite that was ever ready for
trencher service.

Now the settle on which mademoiselle sat had a high back and was
turned away from the rest of us, so that, as we engaged in helping
Madame Saugrain, we might easily have forgotten the little figure
hidden away upon it. Perhaps the others did, but I did not. My mind
hovered around it all the time; but I was divided between a desire to
take her some cake and wine, which I was sure would do her good, and a
fear of my reception if I did, and a baser fear that I might thereby
lose my own toothsome cake and fragrant wine, which was at that moment
making most potent appeals to my inner man by way of the nostrils.
"For," I said to myself, "I know the ways of maidens. They like not to
see men eat. It seems in their minds a greater compliment to them if a
man do but nibble and sip and seem to be careless of his victuals and
drink, which I maintain is a great mistake, for a good trencherman is
ever a good lover, and a man to be trusted in all the serious business
of life."

To ease my conscience and my appetite at the same time, I disposed of
a croquecignolle and my steaming cup of wine with such haste that the
one stuck in my windpipe and liked to choke me, and the other burnt my
mouth well and might as well have been boiling water for all the
pleasure my palate got out of it. Then I pretended to suddenly
remember mademoiselle, and carried her a plate of cake and a cup of
wine with fear and trembling.

She refused them, as I thought she would, but looked up at me very
sweetly and asked me very gently to sit down beside her for a moment,
and I remember thinking as I did so that I had been wise to secure my
cake and wine first, else would I have gone hungry, since I could
scarce have the face to eat if mademoiselle would not eat with me. But
I still thought it would do her good to have at least a little of the
wine, and, remembering how well she had yielded to discipline when she
found she must, I set the wine on the hearth where it would keep warm
for further use, and then turned to hear what she had to say.

"I only want to say to you, Monsieur, that I am very much ashamed of
myself this evening, but I am very unhappy, and I have brooded upon my
unhappiness until I have become nervous and irritable, and, as you saw
to-night, incapable of self-control. Is that a sufficient excuse for
behaving like a spoiled child?"

"Mademoiselle," I said, "it is far more than sufficient, but I am more
distressed than I can tell you that you should be so unhappy. If you
would but tell me the cause perhaps I could help you. Is it anything
you can tell me?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" said Pelagie, hastily, and then seeing perhaps by my
face that it hurt me that she should think it impossible I could help
her, she added hesitatingly: "That is, I think not. Perhaps it might
be possible. I will think about it to-night and to-morrow, and perhaps
at Madame Chouteau's dance, if I have an opportunity, I may tell you.
I believe," still more slowly, "if any one could help me, you could."

I am sure I thanked her more with my eyes than with my voice, but I
know she understood, and then, thinking she had had more than enough
of serious converse for one evening, I resumed my rôle of stern
disciplinarian and made her eat a little of the cake and drink most of
the wine, pretending all the time that she was a naughty child to be
sternly dealt with. And I could see that the warm wine and the foolish
play were bringing back the color to her cheeks and the brightness to
her eyes and the gay ring to her voice, which pleased me greatly. Then
my captain called to me that it was high time to be saying good night
to the ladies, or rather good morning, and I rose to go, but I turned
first and leaned over the back of the tall settle:

"Mademoiselle, at the picnic on Chouteau's Pond I won the first dance
with you, I think somewhat against your will. If I should ask you for
the first dance to-morrow night, would you give it to me willingly?"

"Willingly, Monsieur," with a glance into my eyes (which were very
near her own) by far the sweetest I had yet had from hers.




CHAPTER IX

MADAME CHOUTEAU'S BALL

    "The uncertain glory of an April day."


We met at reveille the next morning at nine--the great Christmas feast
when kinsfolk all gather at the house of the head of the family and
make merry together. Then I saw for what all the mighty preparations
of the day before were intended. The roasted fowl and venison pasty,
smoking hot, were flanked by tarts and cakes and jellies and cordials
beyond my power to inventory, for I had ever less of a talent for the
description of such things than for making away with them.

It was a goodly feast, and we lingered at table for over an hour,
mingling with our enjoyment of Madame Saugrain's good things such
pleasant converse as Frenchmen excel in. Dr. Saugrain himself had
always something wise and witty to say, and being a man of deep
learning and much science, was often, also, most instructive. An hour,
therefore, passed quickly enough, and I was glad to see that
mademoiselle was looking more as she had looked before the picnic on
Chouteau's Pond than I had seen her since my return. But I had chance
for little more than the good wishes of the day with her, for the
company was large and my seat, as usual, was near Madame Saugrain, at
the other end of the table from hers. My thoughts had dwelt much upon
her when I lay on my bed the night before, a long hour ere sleep
visited my eyelids. I had lived over the events of the evening, and of
the weeks that I had known her, and she had seemed to me not one, but
many maidens. Haughty, meek, scornful, merry, mocking, serious, sad,
sweet--in how many moods had I not seen her, and in each in turn she
had seemed to me the sweetest. I always forgot, when I was with her,
that she was a great lady in France and destined soon to return to her
home land and her rightful position. I never could think of her as
anything but Dr. Saugrain's ward: wilful, sweet, and capricious, the
belle of St. Louis, the toast of the young men and the idol of the
young maidens. That as a rule she had treated me with scorn or
indifference did not in the least detract from her charms for me, but
the unwonted sweetness of the night before had quite gone to my head,
and I was henceforth her willing slave.

From the breakfast-table we separated; the captain and Dr. Saugrain
going to the doctor's laboratory, where he was making some wonderful
experiments with phosphorus, by which one might at any moment obtain a
light, without the aid of tinder, by means of little sticks of wood
dipped in the phosphorus! 'Tis not to be wondered at that many people
think Dr. Saugrain a dealer in black arts when he can accomplish such
supernatural results by the aid of science!

As for me, I had an engagement with Josef Papin and Gabriel Cerré and
some other young men to go duck-shooting on the Maramec, a good day's
tramp, and we did not expect to be back until nearly time for Madame
Chouteau's dance. I think the matrons and the maidens expected to
spend the day in going to church and in making visits, which seemed to
me a dull way to spend Christmas, but no doubt they liked it.

It was a grand day for shooting, the air so clear and dry, just frosty
enough to send the blood leaping through our bodies; and we came home
with a great string of prairie-chicken and duck and partridge--enough
to supply the village for a week. We were a little later than we had
intended in getting home, and tired enough to go right to bed, but I,
for one, would not have missed this my first opportunity to appear in
_grand costume du bal_, to say nothing of the joys of the dance.

There was a hot supper waiting for me, which rested me wonderfully;
and then, with Yorke's help, I had a quick bath and was into my ball
dress in a shorter time than I had dared to hope. Yorke had laid out
my dress for me and looked to the lace ruffles and lacers, so that I
had only to jump into it and let him tie me up, and I was ready.

I was glad that I had such a becoming costume with me, for, without
being unduly vain, I knew that the rich plum-colored coat and breeches
and the lilac satin waistcoat with fine lace frills and a touch of
gold here and there were a good offset to my yellow hair and rosy
cheeks, which, much as I despised them at times, I was yet at other
times well satisfied to endure. I liked, too, the looks of my leg in a
fine white silk stocking and low pumps with shoe- and knee-buckles of
brilliants, and was not above being proud of a well-turned calf and
ankle.

Madame and mademoiselle had gone on ahead in a charrette, as better
suited to their _costumes du bal_ than horseback-riding, and Dr.
Saugrain and Captain Clarke had ridden by their side, leaving me to
finish dressing and hurry after them as soon as I could.

A mad haste seized me before I reached Madame Chouteau's lest the
first dance should be over and I lose my promised honor. I reflected,
too, that mademoiselle would think me always tardy in keeping my
engagements with her, and the thought lent spurs to my movements. I
entered the great ball-room in breathless haste. The walnut was waxed
to the last perfection of slipperiness, and not taking heed to my
steps, my feet slipped up. But I caught myself from falling, though
not without as many gyrations of long arms and long legs as a Dutch
windmill might accomplish on a windy day.

My remarkable entry was greeted with a shout of laughter by the young
men and maidens, who by this time had come to know me well. I did not
mind that, but I looked hastily toward Mademoiselle Pelagie, and
there, between the straight black brows, was the ominous little frown
I had learned to dread. What availed my beautiful plum-colored velvets
and lavender satin, lace, and buckles, if I only succeeded in being
an awkward hobbledehoy? I must retrieve myself!

I drew myself up in my grandest manner and walked up to Madame
Chouteau, sitting in state in a great arm-chair near the
chimney-piece. With my courtliest bow, in my best French, I made my
compliments to her as if I had been accustomed to entering rooms in no
other fashion. Then I made the circuit of the room, talking for a
minute or two to each of my acquaintances, lingering longest by
Mademoiselle Chouteau, whose eyes were dancing with mirth, and so
round the circle, head thrown back (but being careful of my steps),
until I came to mademoiselle. There I stopped, with another low bow.
Looking down on her, I was glad to see the frown was no longer there,
but a look of something far pleasanter, almost like admiration, had
taken its place.

Of course she was surrounded by young men--that did not displease me:
I liked to see her admired. She was wearing the same gown she had worn
at Mr. Gratiot's the first time I saw her, and I said to myself: "I
know not what her rank in France may be,--comtesse, marquise, or
duchesse,--but I know she looks every inch la reine." I think my pride
in her lent stateliness to my steps as I led her out in the dance. I
know that for her sake I wished to look as much le roi as it was in me
to look.

But there was no chance during the minuet for mademoiselle's promised
confidence, and as the evening went on I began to think there would be
none at all. There had been the old folks' minuet, when Dr. Saugrain
led out Madame Chouteau on the floor, and his plump little calves,
silk-robed, had twinkled beside her stately steps in wondrous fashion.
And then had come supper,--a bounteous feast of delicate cakes and
sweetmeats and rich salads and cold fowl, with gooseberry wine and a
sweet punch brewed from New Orleans ratafia,--and I feared that would
put an end to the festivities, and still there had been no chance.

But 'tis a wonderful thing on what a small matter great matters will
sometimes turn! Though there may be those who would think it no great
matter that I should find myself riding home in the moonlight with
mademoiselle on a pillion behind me, and Fatima going at so slow a
pace as put her in a constant fret of wonder as to what could be the
reason that her master kept her down so, and mademoiselle telling me
her story in a low tone (for being so near my ear she did not have to
raise her voice), and sometimes trembling so much that the little arm
which was pretending to circle my great waist to hold on by (but which
only reached by uttermost stretch a quarter-way around) would almost
lose its grip.

It seemed a great matter to me, and it happened in this wise: I had
barely spoken to mademoiselle since our dance, when just as I was
getting a glass of gooseberry wine and a croquecignolle for
Mademoiselle Chouteau (she said she had no stomach for salads and
meats at a dance) mademoiselle came up to me, inquiring most anxiously
had I seen her capote. 'Twas of heavy silk, and lined with the skins
of beavers, and would have been very costly in Philadelphia, and
handsome enough for our greatest dames. I had not seen it, but offered
to go at once in search of it as soon as I had carried the wine and
croquecignolle to Mademoiselle Chouteau.

We hunted together in all the most impossible places, and mademoiselle
growing every moment more anxious, because she was keeping madame and
Dr. Saugrain waiting. They were tired and longing to get home, and I
said, half in jest:

"Had I a pillion, Mademoiselle, we would tell madame not to wait, and
when we had found your capote I could bring you home with me on
Fatima."

But mademoiselle answered quickly:

"Would you be so good, Monsieur? I doubt not Madame Chouteau would
lend us a pillion, and it would greatly relieve my anxiety in keeping
madame waiting."

I hardly knew whether I felt more joy or consternation, but
mademoiselle gave me no time to decide which, but hurried me with her
to persuade her guardians not to wait. I thought the arrangement did
not altogether please the doctor, and he demurred greatly; but his
good wife, who never differed with mademoiselle (whether through being
over-fond or a little in awe, I am not sure), persuaded him that it
was all right and quite the best way.

And five minutes after the charrette, with my captain and the doctor
accompanying it, drove out of Madame Chouteau's gate, the capote was
found, mademoiselle herself suddenly remembering where she had laid
it.

I have never felt quite sure that mademoiselle had not known all the
time where it was. But I admired so much the cleverness that could
contrive to accomplish her end (for myself, I could never plan or
scheme, though quick enough to act if occasion presented) that I
forgave the little deceit, if there was any--maidens not being like
men, who must be true and straightforward in even the smallest
matters, lest their honor be attainted.

But when I had mounted Fatima and lifted mademoiselle to her pillion,
and felt her little arm steal round my great waist (as it needs must,
to keep her from falling), my stupid heart began to beat so fast and
to thump so hard against my waistcoat I feared the buttons would give
way, and was greatly shamed lest mademoiselle should feel it thumping
and guess the cause. Yet presently Fatima, not being accustomed to
petticoats falling over her flanks, pranced on two feet in such a
fashion as to cause mademoiselle to clutch me convulsively with both
arms, whereupon I found myself suddenly calm and master of the
situation. It was the work of a minute or two to reduce Fatima to
order and make her understand that petticoats and a pillion were
entirely proper. That being accomplished, and Fatima made to
understand also that she was to go at her slowest pace, I was ready to
hear mademoiselle's story, which finally she began:

"Monsieur, I feel that I must take advantage of this opportunity so
providentially offered me. I had not thought to confide in any one,
but I am in sore need of advice, and I know not where else to turn."

"I know not, Mademoiselle," I answered, "whether I am good at giving
advice. I had rather you would ask me to do for you some perilous and
arduous service. But if it is advice you need most, then such as I can
I will give you truly and faithfully."

"I thank you, Monsieur"; and then mademoiselle was silent for so long
a time that I half turned in my saddle to look at her. She looked up
at me with a pitiful little smile.

"Have patience, Monsieur--I will soon find my courage; but I have need
to trust you greatly, for I am trusting you with the safety, perhaps
the life, of a friend. You will not let any harm come to him through
my betrayal?"

"I promise, Mademoiselle," I said, "to do nothing you will not
approve. But there should never be any question of a betrayal. If a
trust has been given and received, then it is sacred, but it is not
betrayal if it has been forced upon one without his consent."

I said this because I began to have a glimmering of the truth, and I
did not want mademoiselle to violate her conscience. No good can ever
come from that, I have found, and much as I wanted to hear what she
had to tell me, I could not listen comfortably if I thought she were
really betraying a trust. I was still turned in my saddle, watching
her face, and I saw it lighten at once, and something like a great
sigh of relief seemed to come from the depths of her breast.

"I see, Monsieur," she said, "you men understand right and wrong
better than we maidens. It has troubled me greatly that I should prove
unfaithful to a trust, and yet I saw no other way. And now, for fear
my courage will ooze out, I must tell you quickly.

"Two weeks ago I received a letter from the Chevalier Le Moyne, a week
ago I received a second, and yesterday I received a third. The purport
of all these letters is the same. I have returned no answer to any of
them, though each has begged for an answer and given me full
instructions as to how to send it.

"The chevalier has gone no farther south than Cape Girardeau. He is
waiting near there, in an Osage camp, to seize an opportunity to
rescue me, he says, and restore me to my people. If I had replied to
either of these letters, professing my willingness to go with him,
then I should have received a note of instructions as to where to be
on a certain day and at a certain hour. But I have replied to none,
and the last letter has grown desperate. In it he says if he does not
hear from me he shall return to St. Louis on the evening of the Jour
des Rois and be present at the dance, which is by custom a masked
dance, and will then find means to carry me off. If I am not willing
to go with him, then I must send him a letter before the Jour de l'An,
telling him so finally, when he will return to New Orleans and leave
me to my fate. Now, Monsieur, it will seem to you an easy matter that
I should write him, finally, that I will not go with him. But a
woman's heart is a strange thing. I want to go with him, with all my
heart, and yet I shudder at the very thought of going with him. When I
let my thoughts dwell on the glories that await me in Paris, wealth
and power and luxurious living, and the society of the great and the
noble, such as the chevalier has described it, I feel as if I must go,
and all this life which has been so sweet to me here on the very
borders of civilization grows utterly distasteful. Yes, even the
friends that have been so dear to me begin to seem rude and boorish,
as the chevalier called them. Sometimes, in some of my wayward moods,
the very perils of the journey attract me with a strange fascination.
The ride through the forest with savages for guards; the long journey
in an open boat on the bosom of the great Father of Waters; and at
last the perilous voyage by sea, all draw me strangely. At such times
the chevalier seems to me an angel of light, and my only hope of
escape from my narrow confines to a broad and beautiful life. But
there are times when it all seems very different: when the thought of
leaving my two dear guardians is unbearable, and the life I have known
and loved from childhood, among sweet, true friends, the only life I
desire. Ah, Monsieur, I am so torn by these conflicting states of mind
that what wonder my guardians think me changed! They believe the
chevalier's tales have spoiled me for my life in St. Louis, and that I
would gladly leave them. When I see them sad over what they believe to
be my heartlessness my own heart is like to break, but I say nothing,
and they believe me to be entirely ungrateful and unfeeling.

"So you can see how unhappy I have been and am, and how sometimes I am
tempted to break away from it all and fly with the chevalier to new
scenes, whether they bring joy or sorrow."

Mademoiselle did not tell me all this without much hesitation,
sometimes stopping entirely until she could find courage to go on
again, and, as I said before, often trembling so much that the little
arm about my great waist nearly lost its grip. I did not interrupt her
once, but waited, even after she had finished, for fear she might have
more to say. And presently she added:

"If I do not answer the chevalier's letter he will be here on the Jour
des Rois, and it is more than likely he will lose his life in the
attempt to carry me off, even if I were willing to go with him."

"Mademoiselle," I said slowly, "it is a hard thing you have asked me,
and I feel sure that whatever I may say I will make you angry, as I
did last night. Of course you know that what I would most like would
be that you should let the chevalier come on the Jour des Rois, and we
would capture him, and there would be an end to all this trouble. But
you know, too, that since you have trusted me with his secret I would
feel in duty bound to save him and get him safely outside the stockade
again, even, if need were, at the risk of my own life. The thing,
therefore, that I wish you would do, and that seems to me the only
thing to do, is to write him at once, telling him you will never go
with him, and bidding him return at once to France since his task is a
hopeless one."

"And cut myself off from seeing France and recovering my possessions!"

"'Tis not cutting yourself off." (I spoke a little sternly, for I was
beginning to feel irritated that she could not see the utter folly of
thinking for a moment of going with the chevalier.) "Your guardian is
only waiting for two things, and as soon as they are accomplished he
will send you to Paris. He is awaiting letters from your friends to
say the time is ripe for your return, and they are ready to receive
you, and he is waiting to find a proper person in whose care he can
place you to make the voyage."

"Then here is the time and the opportunity," said mademoiselle,
eagerly: "my friends have sent the chevalier for me, and he is waiting
to conduct me there."

I could have shaken her, for a minute, her stupidity seemed so vast to
me. Then I remembered she was really only a child, and that there are
many things maidens do not understand so well as men. So I tried to
speak gently, but so plainly that once for all she might understand.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "do you not see that the very fact that the
chevalier is trying to induce you to go to France alone with him is
proof either of his villainy or of his colossal stupidity? Were he the
angel of light he has sometimes seemed to you, and should he carry you
safely to France and deliver you into the hands of your friends, yet
who, in gay and skeptical Paris, would not be willing to believe the
worst of both of you? The society that he has painted to you as ready
to fall at your feet would be only ready to spurn you. Forgive me,
Mademoiselle, for speaking thus plainly, but there is no man in the
world who would not believe that the very fact of the chevalier's
trying to persuade you to go with him to France proves him a villain
of the deepest dye."

Mademoiselle did not answer; but her arms slipped from my waist, and
presently I felt her little head resting on my broad back, and sobs
were shaking her little figure. I did not dare stir, for fear of
disturbing her, but it was very uncomfortable to sit so rigidly erect,
not daring to move, because a beautiful little black and curly head
was resting a little above the small of one's back, while tempests of
tears were drenching one's military cloak, and the shaking from the
sobs was making queer little shivers run up and down one's backbone.

Now this was the second time my brutality had brought mademoiselle to
tears. This time I thought it was good for her, and was of a mind to
let her weep it out, though all the time longing to turn around and
take her in my arms and let her weep upon my breast instead of on my
back.

But presently I was aware of heroic efforts to stifle the sobs and
stay the tears, and then I heard a most woebegone voice:

"Oh, monsieur, what shall I do? what shall I do?"

Now, I had brought Fatima to a standstill, for I was afraid to let her
go even at a slow walk when mademoiselle had no arm to hold on by, and
her head bobbing at every step of Fatima's into the ticklish part of
my back. And by chance we had stopped where the Rue Bonhomme climbs
down the bluff to the river, and our boats lay moored at its foot.
Suddenly an answer to her question flashed into my head. It seemed to
me a perfect solution of all difficulties, but in the nature of the
case I could say nothing to mademoiselle until I had consulted Dr.
Saugrain and my captain.

One thing I could say, however, and I reiterated what I had said
before:

"One thing you can do at once, mademoiselle: write to the chevalier so
firm and positive a refusal that he will never trouble you again, and
then go and tell your guardian all about it. He deserves this
confidence from you, and I think you will never be very happy until
you have made him feel that there is no change in your grateful
affection to him."

There was another moment of silence, and then, in the meekest of
tones:

"I will do all you tell me, monsieur."

I could not believe it was the same haughty mademoiselle who had so
scorned "ce garçon-çà." But I was not going to show her the elation I
could not help feeling in her change of attitude; and being also most
sorry for her, and everything settled as far as it could be about the
chevalier, I thought it time that she should be diverted from her
unhappy thoughts, and so I bade her look down on the great river, now
rolling, a silver flood under the moon, straight to Cape Girardeau,
where the chevalier was lingering, and past fort and forest on to the
rich city of New Orleans. For a moment the old longing returned to be
one of a great army borne on its swift waters to capture the haughty
city that held the gateway to the sea. I thought it no harm to tell
mademoiselle what my dreams had been, and we both laughed merrily at
the audacity of them.

But the night was passing, and gently lifting mademoiselle's arm and
placing it so that it should once more hold her secure on her pillion,
I put Fatima to a gentle canter; and as I felt Pelagie's clasp
tighten, my pulse leaped faster in my veins, and I gave Fatima full
rein, and we went thundering down the Rue Royale, past Madame
Chouteau's place, with the last revelers just coming through the great
gates; past Auguste Chouteau's house, standing dark among its trees;
past the Government House, still brightly lighted, for Governor
Delassus and his retinue were just entering the great hall; turned up
the Rue de la Tour, with the tower at the top of the hill shining
white in the moonlight, then down the long stretch of the Rue de
l'Église, faster and faster, as mademoiselle clung closer, until we
reached the gate of Émigré's Retreat, and a great dog came rushing to
meet us with mighty bounds and joyous barks, and would have
overpowered us both with his clumsy caresses but that a sweet voice
(never before one half so sweet) called:

"À bas, Leon! Tais-toi, mon ange!"




CHAPTER X

LA GUIGNOLÉE

    "By sports like these are all their cares beguiled."


I woke the next morning with a feeling of elation that for a moment I
did not understand; then I recognized that it was a feeling that
mademoiselle and I would never again be on any but the friendliest of
terms. No more fear of merry scoffing or haughty disdain! I had a
right to look now for only kindness and friendliness.

But I did not know mademoiselle. The morning was bleak; a fine drizzle
of rain, freezing as it fell, was hanging jeweled pendants from every
twig and branch. I went down-stairs, to find that morning coffee was
being served in the living-room, on a small table drawn up before a
blazing fire of logs. Mademoiselle, who did not often come to early
coffee, was serving it, in a warm-looking gown of some wool stuff,
deep red in color, and I thought it suited well her dark beauty and
the bleak morning. I stopped at the threshold to make my low bow, and
then went forward, expecting a less formal greeting. But she only
looked up from the silver urn, whence she was drawing a cup of coffee
for the captain, long enough to say, "Good morning, monsieur," in her
iciest tones, and then went on talking gaily to the captain of the
ball the night before. I did not understand at all, but I thought it
quite possible I had imagined her coldness; and so, without seeming to
push myself unduly, I sought to join in the conversation when
opportunity offered. I think the captain seconded my efforts out of
the courtesy natural to him; but mademoiselle made it so plain that
she desired to ignore me that I soon took my cup and withdrew to a
corner of the fireplace. I hope I did not do anything so boyish as to
sulk there, but of that I am not sure.

When the good doctor came bustling in from his laboratory a few
minutes later, half frozen, but burning with enthusiasm over some
experiments he was making with quicksilver, he brought his coffee to
my warm corner, and I at once simulated the deepest interest in his
account of his morning's work--though I confess I have never taken any
great interest in science, and from what he seemed to expect the
quicksilver to do I did not feel altogether sure that he was not, in
truth, dabbling in black art.

There was a long mirror at the other end of the room--one that Madame
Saugrain had brought from France, and the pride of her heart. As we
talked I could glance in it and see mademoiselle perfectly without
seeming to look at her. I observed that she grew more and more
distrait, only half listening to the captain, and very evidently
trying to overhear our conversation. I had not known that mademoiselle
was so interested in science, and I began to make deep and learned
speeches (or, at least, I hoped they sounded so) on quicksilver and on
every subject allied to it. I did not hesitate to make some remarkable
statements, for whose truth I modestly said I could not vouch. The
doctor was too courteous to show the surprise I think he must have
felt at some of them, but if I had not been so interested in my
investigations in the mirror (which, I am sure, is closely allied to
quicksilver) I would have noticed without doubt that knowing twinkle
of the eye that I had seen at least twice before. My glances in the
mirror, however, showed me that my learned speeches had produced their
intended effect on mademoiselle, at least, and once more I caught that
wondering glance fixed upon me.

I did not see mademoiselle again until the evening supper-hour. After
breakfast Dr. Saugrain invited the captain and me to ride with him up
to Pierre Chouteau's, and on the ride he told us that mademoiselle had
come to him that morning in the laboratory and had told him all about
the chevalier. I was much touched that she had acted upon my advice so
promptly, and half forgave her for her treatment of me at coffee,
though I understood it the less. The doctor did not say so directly,
but I judged from one or two little remarks that he and Pelagie had
had a thorough clearing up of all their misunderstandings and were
once more on the old confidential terms. He spoke especially of her
"sweetness," and said his advice had been, like mine, to write the
chevalier at once a firm refusal. But the good doctor was greatly
troubled.

"I shall never feel quite secure again," he said, "till I have Pelagie
safe with her friends in France; so I shall seek the first opportunity
of sending her there. 'Tis for that I am going to consult Pierre
Chouteau, and I thought you might have some suggestion, one or both of
you, as to how to find an escort for her."

I was so eager with my plan that had flashed on me the night before
that I could not wait to show the proper courtesy to my captain. He
certainly had a right to speak first, but I broke forth, "I have a
plan, sir--" and then was abashed and stopped short.

The doctor understood, and nodded to me.

"Yes; let the captain speak first, and then we will hear your plan."

"Nay," said the captain, with his friendliest smile; "let the lad
speak. He has a plan that seems to me not wholly unpracticable and may
prove the very thing."

Thus encouraged, I rushed ahead:

"I have been talking to Captain Clarke about it, sir, and he thinks it
can be done. My last letter from home said that Colonel Livingston was
about to join his father in Paris. My family know Colonel Livingston
well, and a letter from my father would insure the protection of both
Colonel and Mrs. Livingston for mademoiselle on the voyage."

But the good doctor shook his head.

"I could never get Pelagie to New York, I fear; to both Madame
Saugrain and myself, such a journey seems an almost impossible
undertaking."

"But Captain Clarke has that all arranged," I cried.

The doctor looked at the captain, who answered, smiling:

"It is my good Achates who has arranged it, but I heartily approve of
his plans. It is time we were getting back to Kentucky, and he
proposes that we take mademoiselle with us to my sister, Mrs.
O'Fallon. There she can stay until we can find a suitable escort up
the Ohio to Port Duquesne, and across the mountains to New York. There
are boats going up the river every week, and always some one going
back to the old home to whom we could intrust mademoiselle. I think it
a good and feasible plan."

But we had quite reached Pierre Chouteau's before we had persuaded the
doctor that our plan was at all a practical one. Not, as he assured
us, that he could not trust mademoiselle with us, but the
difficulties, dangers, and inconveniences of such a trip, for a young
maiden with no woman in the party but her colored maid, seemed to him
almost insurmountable. However, he was so nearly convinced by my
eloquence and the captain's logic that just as we were turning in at
Mr. Chouteau's he said:

"Well, well, my dear friends, it may be possible. We will see! I must
take time to consult Madame Saugrain, and, until then, not a word to
mademoiselle, I beg of you both."

We both readily promised, though I was so elated at what I considered
the already assured success of my plan that I might have found it
difficult not to speak to mademoiselle about it if she had not been
in the same icy mood to me at supper (though sweet and most charming
to the captain and her guardian) as she had been at breakfast.

The next day Dr. Saugrain told us that he and his wife had talked far
into the night about Pelagie, and they had come to the conclusion that
our plan was the best solution of the difficulties. He said madame had
wept much at the thought of parting with Pelagie, and of all the
difficulties and dangers she must encounter, before she could become
reconciled to the thought of it; but now she was quite resigned, and
had already begun to plan what clothes and other conveniences it would
be necessary for Pelagie to take with her, and how they could best be
got ready.

"And, after the manner of women," the doctor said, "from the moment
she began to think about clothes, she began to grow cheerful. And she
has such confidence in Clotilde, who will go with her, and who has had
entire charge of her since her babyhood, that she thinks she will be
as well taken care of as if she were with her herself. But we both
think," he added, "that it will be wiser to say nothing to Pelagie
about it until it is almost time to make the start. If, for any
reason, our plan should fail, her mind will not be unsettled by it,
and she will be no worse off than if we had not thought of it.
Moreover, the fewer we take into our confidence the better, for I am
assured the chevalier has spies and secret emissaries that we do not
suspect. We will give him no chance to thwart our plans!"

The good doctor spoke the last words so grimly that it was easy to
understand in what esteem he held the villain, and both the captain
and I heartily approved his precaution.

There followed busy days for me. The captain, who was much engaged in
settling up the business for his brother which had brought him to St.
Louis, had little time for aught else, though Governor Delassus, the
Chouteaus, and Mr. Gratiot made many demands upon him for counsel and
for social festivities, in which last I was courteously included. When
these fell upon the evening I was very ready to join in them, but my
days were more than full. All the arrangements for mademoiselle's
comfort on the boat my captain had intrusted to me, and I was
determined that nothing should be left undone to make her voyage on
the Great River as comfortable as possible. The cabin, a rough affair
at its best, was partitioned into two, and the larger one made as
clean as six blacks scrubbing hard on hands and knees could make it.
Then I got from Pierre Chouteau a small stove such as he often used on
his boat in winter trips up the Missouri, and set it up in the cabin,
cutting a hole in the roof to give egress to the stovepipe. From
Madame Saugrain I got some strips of warm, bright carpet and some
clean warm bedding, and I set Yorke to work, under my careful
supervision, to make the two beds for mademoiselle and her maid, to
tack down the strips of carpet, to put up some white ruffled curtains
(also Madame Saugrain's gift) at the square bit of window, and to
polish up the brass handles of the portable locker that was to hold
mademoiselle's wardrobe. I thought, when all was done,--the small
table covered with a white cloth, and two shining candlesticks on it,
and the three comfortable chairs arranged about it,--I thought it cozy
and complete enough for a trip to France; and my heart beat high when
I thought of the tête-à-têtes with mademoiselle that must almost
necessarily fall to my lot on a voyage of at least a week. But, in the
meantime, I was seeing very little of her, between being busy all day
and often invited out in the evening--and not getting much
satisfaction when I did; for either she was incased in her icy
hauteur, or, if she chanced to be kind, I was so brimming over with my
secret, so afraid I should let it slip, I was unnaturally constrained
with her.

Before I knew it the Jour de l'An was upon us, and the doctor and the
captain had both agreed it would be wise to set out on the day before
the Jour des Rois. On no account would it do to risk remaining over
the Jour des Rois, lest the chevalier should accomplish his purpose in
spite of mademoiselle's letter of refusal.

Now, as its name signifies, the Jour de l'An is the greatest of all
days to these St. Louis Frenchmen. Preparations had been making for it
all the week. The governor himself was to give a grand ball at
Government House, and I had heard mademoiselle telling Captain Clarke,
as we sat at supper on New Year's eve, how that would be only the
beginning of a round of festivities, and that Marguerite Papin,
Pelagie Chouteau, and she had been making the bean-cake that
afternoon.

"And what is the bean-cake, pray, Mademoiselle?" I inquired,
determined to take matters into my own hands and be no longer shut out
from conversation as if I were infected.

Mademoiselle looked up in surprise at my audacity, and for a moment
was of half a mind not to reply to me; but she thought better of it,
and answered coolly and formally:

"'Tis a cake, Monsieur, with four beans baked in it. It will be cut
to-morrow night at the governor's ball, and the four maidens who
receive the slices with the beans will be the queens of the ball. They
will choose four kings, who will then be obliged to get up the ball
for the Jour des Rois, and at that these four kings will choose four
queens, who will choose four other kings, who must give the next ball.
'Tis an endless chain of balls till Shrove Tuesday arrives, to finish
it all up with one grand carnival ball; and so you see, sir, if you
stay in St. Louis I can promise you a merry winter."

I almost laughed as I thought how little she dreamed that she would
not be here herself. Yet the prospect sounded alluring, and I could
have been well pleased to spend the winter in the gay little village,
if the fates had ordained. I answered her to that effect, and then I
added:

"If you could but give me any hope that I should be chosen a king, I
might take fate into my own hands and stay anyway."

"There is much ground for hope, sir," she answered demurely, "since
both Pelagie Chouteau and Marguerite Papin are almost certain to be
queens."

Then, with a quick beat of the heart, I thought perhaps she had not
liked it that they had been friendly and I had been polite. If her
manner to me could be so accounted for I was well content, for at
least it did not argue indifference.

But before I could reply there was a great noise, outside on the
gallery, of shuffling feet and smothered whispers, and mademoiselle
clapped her hands and cried:

"La Guignolée!" And at the same moment there arose, to the quaintest
air, a chorus of men's voices:

    "Bon soir, le maître et la maîtresse,
      Et tout le monde du logis!
    Pour le premier jour de l'année
      La Guignolée vous nous devez.
    Si vous n'avez rien à nous donner,
      Dites-nous le;
    Nous vous demandons pas grande chose, une échinée--
      Une échinée n'est pas bien longue
    De quatre-vingt-dix pieds de longue.
      Encore nous demandons pas de grande chose,
    La fille ainée de la maison.
      Nous lui ferons faire bonne chère--
    Nous lui ferons chauffer les pieds."

Horrified at these last words of the song, I scarcely dared glance at
mademoiselle; but when I did dare, to my amazement, she was smiling
good-humoredly, and I saw the words meant nothing to her. But the
chorus was interrupted at that moment by a single voice which I
recognized at once as Josef Papin's, singing a ditty about doves and
cuckoos and nightingales, and winding up by declaring that he was
dying for the soft eyes of his mistress. I saw that mademoiselle
recognized the voice, too, and I was vexed to see the bright color and
downcast eyes that betokened she understood these words perfectly.

But the chorus began again immediately:

    "Nous saluons la compagnie
      Et la prions nous excuser.
    Si l'on a fait quelque folie."

(I thought this apology most becoming.)

    "C'était pour vous désennuyer;
      Une autre fois nous prendrons garde
    Quand sera temps d'y revenir.
      Dansons la guenille,
    Dansons la guenille,
      Dansons la guenille!"

And then the doors were flung open, and there burst in upon us a
motley crew of grotesque and hideous masks, each one bearing a basket
or bucket or sack, and all singing and shouting in every key and in no
time:

    "Bon soir, le maître et la maîtresse,
      Et tout le monde du logis!"

Madame Saugrain and mademoiselle sprang up from the table and ran to
the kitchen, returning with both hands full, and followed by a
procession of servants bringing eggs and sugar and butter and flour
and poultry and wine--a goodly donation indeed for the Jour des Rois
ball, and for which the maskers showed their thanks by dancing _la
guenille_, a truly Saturnalian performance, somewhat shocking to my
Eastern notions of propriety. But evidently neither the doctor nor his
wife nor mademoiselle saw any harm in it, for they applauded it
greatly, after the French fashion, by clapping of hands and crying
"Encore!"

Yorke had come in with the other servants from the kitchen, and it was
a sight to see his great eyes rolling in ecstasy and his white teeth
displayed from ear to ear as he watched the mummers, and I was not
surprised to see him follow them like one bewitched as they went up
toward the Rue des Granges to Paschal Cerré's house, singing:

    "Bon soir, le maître et la maîtresse,
      Et tout le monde du logis!"

"You will be having Yorke dancing la guenille," I said to the captain,
"when he gets back to Kentucky."

"An he does," answered the captain, with a grim smile, "I will
bastinado him." For I think the captain did not like some of the
figures of la guenille any better than did I.




CHAPTER XI

CHOISSEZ LE ROI

    "She moves a goddess and she looks a queen."


Le Jour de l'An was a full day with me. Though I did not go to early
mass with the family, I left the house when they did and had a fast
gallop on Fatima's back through the gray dawn down to the boat, for
there were still a few finishing touches to be put to my decorations
and arrangements for mademoiselle's comfort, and I was in feverish
haste that all should be in readiness. Captain Clarke and I spent the
day in visits of ceremony made at the houses where we had been so
often and so kindly entertained during our stay. They were really
farewell visits, though for prudential reasons we said nothing of our
approaching departure. At every house we were served with
croquecignolles and wine or ratafia by the young maidens and their
mothers, and we were so hospitably urged to eat and drink that had we
done anything more than make the merest pretense for the sake of good
fellowship we would have been in no condition for the dance in the
evening.

Frenchmen know better how to manage their drinking than do we
Anglo-Saxons. I know not how they do it, but I know not a young
fellow appeared at the governor's house in the evening who had
apparently taken more than was good for him; and yet had our
Philadelphia lads been through the ordeal of proffered glasses all day
long, I warrant there would not have been a corporal's guard able to
line up in good order at the governor's ball. But all these young St.
Louis Frenchmen were out in fine feather, and carrying themselves
grandly, eyes bright and heads steady, ready to lead out to the
governor's table the belles of St. Louis, dazzling in brocades and
feathers, lace, and powder and black patches.

It was a goodly feast, ragout and roast fowl and venison pasties, and
cakes and tarts and rich conserves making the tables groan; but the
crowning moment was when the governor's stately butler brought in the
bean-cake (almost as much as he could carry) and set it down before
the governor. 'Twas a breathless silence as the governor cut each
slice and sent it first to the maiden nearest him and then to the next
in order. I was not in the least surprised when one of the four beans
fell to mademoiselle's lot; I would have been surprised if it had not.
There was a burst of ringing cheers, led by Josef Papin, when the
lucky slice came to her, and I thought, "He knows he will be chosen
king," and smiled with bitterness at the thought.

I had not seen mademoiselle all day. As I glanced at her now, smiling
and coloring with pleasure at the cheers that betokened her
popularity, it flashed into my mind that she would reign a queen
indeed when she came into her own in France, for I was very sure
there were no court ladies could compare with her for beauty and
grace.

The governor himself crowned the four queens, and then they had to
retire into the background for a space while their elders danced the
first minuet, in which the governor led out Madame Chouteau in stately
measure. But after that formal opening of the ball the young people
had it all their own way, and the four queens queened it royally each
with a flock of suitors around her. I said to myself proudly, "I will
not hang on to any of their trains." There was no possible doubt but
that mademoiselle would choose Josef Papin (since the chevalier was
not there), and while I would have liked it well if one of the others
had chosen me, just to show mademoiselle that all did not scorn me, I
would not seem to sue for favors. So I attached myself to Mademoiselle
Chouteau (who had not been so lucky as to draw a bean); and she being
in the sauciest mood (and looking exceeding pretty), and I feeling
that I was at least as well dressed as any other man (since I had on
my plum-colored velvets and my finest lace), and therefore at my ease,
we made ourselves so entertaining to each other that I began in my
heart to feel a little regret that this was to be my last ball with
her.

I would not so much as look at mademoiselle, whose silvery laugh
sometimes floated to my ears, for she had treated me shamefully of
late, and, as far as I could see, without the least reason. Just once
I caught her eye, however. I do not know how it happened, but there
was a moment of almost silence in the crowded room. The violins were
not playing, no one was dancing, and for one fleeting moment, every
one, or nearly every one, seemed to have ceased talking. Into this
strange silence, through the open windows, there floated the clear
call of the whippoorwill,--only one, for the buzz and clamor and
clatter of many voices surged up again instantly, and the violins
began to scrape and screech themselves into tune, and no one seemed to
have noticed either the silence or the whippoorwill. But I could not
for the life of me help one swift glance toward mademoiselle, and I
met her eyes seeking mine in a look of startled alarm that was almost
terror. I held her glance long enough to say to her with my eyes, "Do
not be afraid; I will see what it is," and I had the satisfaction of
seeing, before she turned away, that she understood and was reassured.

A few minutes later I slipped outside. I was not entirely at ease
about that call, it had meant so much once. And I was not at all sure
of the chevalier. A ball like this, with every one off guard, would be
just his opportunity. Outside there was a motley throng of negroes,
river-men, and Indians, hanging around to get glimpses of the dancers
and the guests coming and going. The yard was brightly lighted in
spots by flaming lightwood torches, which left the other parts in
deepest gloom. I noticed among the throng a little group of mummers,
such as had been at Dr. Saugrain's the night before in hideous masks.
This did not at first seem strange to me, but afterward I thought it
must be unusual, for they belonged peculiarly to New Year's eve.

Leaning against a post that held a lightwood torch, a little withdrawn
from the others, in solitary dignity, stood Black Hawk. I knew if
there had been anything unusual in the whippoorwill cry he would know
it. I sauntered up to him carelessly (for if there were spies about, I
did not want to arouse suspicion), and stopped where the light fell
full on me, for I knew well the value of impressing Black Hawk with
the splendor of my dress. For the benefit of any possible listener, I
told him that the governor's halls were hot and I must needs get a
draft of cold air before I could go back to my dancing. Then I talked
to him of Daniel Boone, for he had been with us on our trip to his
home, and I knew his admiration for that wonderful man. His only
responses were a series of grunts, but they were amiable ones (I think
the old savage rather liked me), and as I talked I gradually drew
nearer. When I was quite close to him, I said suddenly, in a low tone:

"Does the Great Chief of the Sacs think there are any White Wolves or
Red Dogs about to-night?"

I saw a sudden glitter in his eye, but that was the only response
except the invariable "Ugh!" Then I said again in the same low tone:

"If Black Hawk will watch and let his white brother know what he finds
out, it will greatly please the brother of the Captain of the Long
Knives."

There was another "Ugh!"--this time with half an inclination of the
head, and I went back to the dance satisfied that if there was
anything wrong, Black Hawk would discover it.

It was half an hour later when Yorke came to me between the figures of
the dance and begged a word with me.

"Jes as soon as yo' can slip out unbeknownst-like," he said, "that
thar decent redskin 's waitin' to speak to yo'-all at the kitchen
doah. Yo' 's to go down through the house, so 's nobody outside won't
see yo'."

I found an opportunity as soon as that dance was over, and going down
through the house, with Yorke as my guide, I found Black Hawk waiting,
and without a preliminary word, in slow, sententious fashion, he
delivered his message.

"Black Hawk say to White Brother, Beware of White Wolf and six Red
Dogs. Wear devil's faces. All gone now. Wait for Little White Fawn
going home. Black Hawk go home with White Fawn and Fine Dress and Long
Knives' brother and Little Medicine-man and Big Black."

I understood his broken sentences very well. The mummers were, as I
had half suspected, the chevalier and a band of Osages. They would lie
in wait for Pelagie on our way home and capture her if we were off
guard. Black Hawk offered his services to guard her on the way home,
and I gladly accepted them, for even then the chevalier's band would
outnumber us; and while in a hand-to-hand fight I did not doubt we
were much the better men, they would have greatly the advantage of us
in being able to spring upon us from ambuscade and get the first
shot.

[Illustration: "In solitary dignity stood Black Hawk"]

Black Hawk had planned our forces well, but I did not like his title
for me, "Fine Dress"; I would rather he had called me "Straight
Shoot," the name he had several times given me on our trip together up
the Missouri. I had a lurking doubt that he was rebuking me for my
vanity.

But there was no time to quarrel about titles. I hunted up Dr.
Saugrain, whom I found in the wide chimney-corner, the center of a
group of choice spirits,--the two Chouteaus, Mr. Gratiot, Mr. Cerré,
Francis Vigo, and Manuel Lisa,--and he was telling them all, with
great enthusiasm, about his experiments in quicksilver, and, to my
surprise, they were listening as eagerly as if he had been telling
tales of war and adventure--which was a marvelous thing to me, to whom
science was ever dull and dry-as-dust. I liked not to interrupt him,
but the need was pressing, and when I had called him to one side and
told him of the presence of the chevalier and his Osages, he was
greatly excited.

The thing that troubled me most was that we were without firearms. I
had my sword on, of course, and so had the captain, but swords would
be of little use, for the savages would not wait for a hand-to-hand
encounter, but would fire at long range. The only thing to be done was
to borrow from the governor; and in his grand Spanish manner he
pressed all the guns of his armory upon us, and said he would send a
messenger at once to the fort to have a troop despatched to scour the
town and rid it of every suspicious character; which was somewhat of a
relief to me, but would have been more so if I could only have felt
more confidence in his slow-moving Spanish soldiers.

But the governor begged, since it was a matter that required no haste,
that we would say nothing to alarm his guests and so break up the
dance in undue time, for, as he said, the kings had not yet been
chosen, and it would be a great pity to interfere with that pleasant
ceremony. As for me, I would have been quite willing to dispense with
it. There would be no pleasure to me in seeing mademoiselle pin her
bouquet on the lapel of Josef Papin's coat, thus choosing him her
king; but there was nothing to do but go back to the ball-room and see
it out.

As I entered the room, there happened to be a little break in the
coterie of young men surrounding mademoiselle, and through it I met
her glance of eager inquiry. She had evidently missed me from the
room, and had her suspicions as to the cause of my long absence. I
returned her glance with an assuring smile that all was well, and went
on to where I had left Mademoiselle Chouteau a half-hour before. I
could not have expected her to sit in a corner waiting for me all that
while, yet when I found that she too had her little coterie, and I was
evidently not missed, I felt unaccountably hurt and forlorn: as if
there was no place for me, an alien, among these St. Louis French
people. As I had done many times before, I turned to Madame Saugrain
for comfort.

It was nearing midnight, and I had wondered as I came in why they were
not dancing. Now I saw the reason of it. Down through the center of
the floor came the governor, followed by his tall butler bearing a
silver tray with four small bouquets upon it. He went directly to
mademoiselle first, and then to the three other queens in turn,
presenting each with one of the bouquets and making to each a gallant
little speech, which the four maidens received with smiles and blushes
and curtsies as became them, but mademoiselle also with a stately
grace befitting a queen.

Then there was a moment of intense expectancy, for it was mademoiselle
who was first to place her bouquet on the lapel of the coat of the
chosen king. I would not look at her. I did not want to see her put it
upon Josef Papin's coat, though there was no other there more fitting
to receive it or who would make a more royal king for such a queen. So
I half turned my back and talked busily to madame, who listened to me
not at all, so engrossed was she in the spectacle. It seemed to me a
long time in the doing, and presently I saw in madame's eyes a light
of eager surprise.

"Look, m'ami, look!" she cried to me. But I would not look; no, not
even when I began to feel a suspicion of what was going to happen,
from a queer feeling in my backbone, and my heart beating like a
trip-hammer, and the blood rushing to the roots of my hair.

"Look, look! I beg you to turn!" madame cried again. But I would not
turn, though I heard a subdued murmur of voices all around me, and a
soft rustle of silken skirts coming nearer and nearer--not until the
soft rustle stopped close beside me, and a sweet voice said:

"Shall I pin my bouquet upon Monsieur's back? I believe it is usual to
pin it upon the lapel of the coat."

Then I turned quickly, and for all the answer I made I dropped on one
knee and held toward her the lapel of my coat, and as she stooped to
pin it on I looked straight into her eyes. And what my eyes said to
hers I know not, but quickly the white lids drooped over hers and shut
me out from heaven, while the long black lashes lay upon her cheek,
and the rich blood swept in a slow flood from the snowy throat to the
dark waves of hair that crowned her white brow.

And now her fingers trembled so in pinning on the flowers that she was
long in the doing of it (though I could have wished it much longer);
and when she had finished I seized the hand that trembled, and for the
first time I had ever dared I pressed my lips upon it. I saw another
wave of color sweep her face, and then she bade me rise, and as I
stood beside her a burst of acclaims came from every lip, "Vive le
roi! Vive le roi!" and from one, "Vive le roi et la reine!" and I
could not have been prouder had I been king indeed, and she my royal
consort beside me!




CHAPTER XII

A MIDNIGHT FRAY

    "Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety."


Josef Papin was the first to bow the knee to me in mock homage, and as
his laughing eyes met mine he said, in a tone not so low but that
mademoiselle might have heard if she had listened:

"I owe you a grudge, sire. You have stolen the honors I so dearly
coveted."

A sudden impulse seized me.

"Would you like to be detailed on some special service to your king
and queen?" I asked.

"Most certainly, sire."

"Then stay by me, and when the ceremony of choosing the next king
begins I will tell you about it."

Here was a heart as true as steel, ready to be generous to a
successful rival and loyal unto death to his queen. It would not hurt
to have one more guard for mademoiselle on our midnight ride; we would
then more nearly match in numbers the chevalier's band, and by numbers
alone might intimidate him from even making the attack. Which was much
to be desired, since there would be two ladies in our party, and
fighting and bloodshed are not for tender hearts like theirs to know.

But more than that, I thought I could give him no greater pleasure
than the chance to prove himself of some real service to mademoiselle,
and I would like to atone for stealing the honors he had felt so sure
of. And more still: we had decided, in our hasty conference a little
while before,--Dr. Saugrain, my captain, and I,--that it would not do
at all to wait until the day before the Jour des Rois, as we had at
first intended. Since the boat was in readiness, and the captain's
business finished, there was no reason why we should not start at
once. We had decided, therefore, on the next morning for our
departure, for we all felt that as long as the chevalier was lurking
about there was no safety for mademoiselle until she was well on her
way to France.

To spirit mademoiselle away without a chance of saying good-by to so
good a friend as young Papin seemed to me unkind to them both. We
could trust him fully, and he should have his chance to say good-by.
The captain and Dr. Saugrain had intrusted me with the entire
arrangement for mademoiselle's safety and given me command of our
little force, so I could make my offer to him with authority. When the
opportunity offered to explain to him, a very few minutes sufficed to
tell him our fears for mademoiselle's safety. His eyes flashed fire as
he listened, and when I said to him, "Would you like to make one of
our guard on our way home?" he grasped my hand and wrung it.

"I thank you, monsieur," he said, and then he muttered in my ear:

"What would I not give for one good chance at the chevalier!"

Half an hour later our little cavalcade set off from the governor's
house, the governor himself waving us an adieu from the gallery steps.
We had placed madame and mademoiselle in the center, with Josef Papin
on one side and myself on the other. Black Hawk and Yorke were in the
van, and Captain Clarke and Dr. Saugrain brought up the rear.

It had been necessary to make to the two ladies some explanation of
these warlike arrangements, but we had said nothing of the presence of
the chevalier. I knew it would distress mademoiselle, nor was I sure
that her heart would not dictate a surrender, and he would at last
accomplish his purpose and bear her away with him, a willing captive,
to France. We had only said that a suspicious band of Osages was
lurking about, and we thought it wise to take some precautions.

There was, on the Rue de l'Église, which was our direct way home, one
spot peculiarly fitted for an ambuscade, where the road dipped
suddenly into a deep gully and rose again on the farther side, and
where, owing to the marshy nature of the soil, the forest had not been
cleared away. It was a lonely bit of road, without houses on either
side for a quarter of a mile, and I thought it more than likely that
the chevalier would select this spot for an attack, if he intended to
make one.

To cheat him, if possible, we rode up the hill of the Rue de la Tour
and turned to the left at the fort, which was dark and silent, a proof
to me that the troops had left it, and had, no doubt, ere this rid the
village of our enemy. The Rue des Granges, down which we rode, ran
along the crest of the hill, and there was no marsh here to be
crossed, and the gully had run out to a mere depression. We bore no
torches, and moving as silently as possible through the blackness of
the night, we hoped we might escape detection. But as we came to the
head of the gully I glanced down, and at that moment a swift spark as
from a tinder flashed into the air, followed by a steady glow, and I
knew the chevalier was there and that, deeming himself securely hidden
among the trees, he had just lighted a cigar to keep him company in
his stealthy watch. And I knew, too, that if I but drew my pistol and
took steady aim at that glow-worm in the dark there would be no more
trouble or anxiety for any of us on mademoiselle's account. For one
moment I hesitated, and Fatima, feeling the involuntary grasp of her
bridle-rein, half stopped. But could I have brought my mind to the
committing of a cold-blooded murder like that, the memory of
mademoiselle's plea for the chevalier's safety would have palsied my
arm. Yet my generosity had like to have been our undoing. What it was
that betrayed us I know not. It may have been the tramp of our horses'
feet, conveyed down the gully as by an ear-trumpet; or it is possible
that in spite of the darkness our moving figures were silhouetted
against the faint light in the western sky; or a stone, loosened by
one of our horses, may have rolled down the gully to the chevalier's
feet. Whatever it was, I knew we were discovered. There was suddenly a
soft call of a whippoorwill from below us, answered quickly and softly
by a half-dozen others, and then a sound as of hasty but cautious
stirrings. I knew what it meant: they had seen us, and they would cut
us off before we reached our gates. I gave a quick word of command:

"Ride as hard and as fast as you can; never mind the noise you make.
We are discovered! Our only hope of avoiding a fight is by reaching
the gates first."

Black Hawk and Yorke were off like a shot: Yorke, I have no doubt,
with the intention of getting to cover as quickly as possible, but
Black Hawk, I believe, after a scalp or two. I had to call to them
both to come back and keep close to the ladies. Mademoiselle had
uttered not a word, only urged her little La Bette to do her utmost,
but madame, since the embargo of silence was removed, did not cease to
utter a string of prayers and entreaties to "le bon Dieu" to save us
all from the savages.

We were on the crest of the hill, and looking down to the Rue de
l'Église I could get an inkling of what progress the savages were
making from an occasional flash of shining metal in a ray of light
from some window; for though the hour was late the town was still
astir from the governor's ball, and lights were in most of the houses.
As yet they were some distance behind us, but though we were on horses
and they afoot, they had a much shorter distance to travel and they
were fleet runners. We were like a chain, only as strong as our
weakest link; we were only as fleet as our slowest horse, and that was
the one that bore madame's plump figure. La Bette was not much faster,
and I began to get in a fever of impatience, as I could see the
savages were steadily gaining on us. Should we meet them in that dark
lane leading down from the Rue des Granges to the Rue de l'Église we
were almost certainly at their mercy. In a few minutes it was evident
to me that at our present rate of progress they were sure to meet us
there, and there seemed no possible way of hurrying our two slow
ponies. I would have turned back but that I believed the chevalier was
sharp enough to have sent part of his men up the gully to cut off our
retreat, should we attempt one. There was but one thing to do: Fatima
had saved mademoiselle once; she should save her again. I leaned back
of mademoiselle and spoke to Josef Papin:

"We will never reach the house before the savages at this rate. I
shall take mademoiselle on Fatima and get her safe inside the gates.
You and Black Hawk follow me as quickly as possible, and the other
three will remain to protect Madame Saugrain."

Then I called a halt and explained my plan to the others. It needed
but a word, and there was no demur but a low wail from Madame
Saugrain, who, I make no doubt, believed Pelagie was going to certain
death. Mademoiselle herself said nothing; I think for the first time
she realized that the chevalier was leading the Osages and that their
only aim was to get possession of her.

My explanation had not consumed a minute, and as I finished it I
turned in my saddle.

"By your leave, Mademoiselle," I said, bent over and lifted her from
La Bette's back (and never was I more thankful for my great strength
and that she was but a feather-weight, else had the feat proved a
difficult one) and placed her securely in front of me on Fatima. 'Twas
not so comfortable a seat as at my back, no doubt, but I dared not
risk her where I could not see what befell her. One word to Fatima:

"Sweetheart, for our lives!" I laid the reins low on her neck, and we
were off with a long swinging stride that soon left even Black Hawk
and Papin far behind, though they were urging their good horses to the
utmost.

There was not a moment to be lost, for I could see that the savages
were nearing the junction of the lane and the Rue de l'Église, and we
must pass that point before them and ride some twenty paces down the
Rue de l'Église before we should reach the gates and a safe refuge
behind the walls of Émigré's Retreat. I did not cease to urge Fatima
by my voice, though never touching her reins. One arm held
mademoiselle securely, and my right hand lay on the holster of my
pistol, ready for instant service.

Out of the Rue des Granges we shot like a bolt, into the steep and
rough lane leading down the hill. Had I not held mademoiselle so
firmly I think that swift swerve at the sharp corner might have
unseated us both. Faster and faster we flew, like a swallow on the
wing, Fatima's dainty feet as surely placed among the rocks and holes
of the rough road as if she had been pacing in Rotten Row. Well she
knew that a misstep of hers now might mean death to all three of us,
and well she knew that her master trusted her perfectly.

I could feel mademoiselle's heart fluttering like a caged bird for
terror; my own was beating like a trip-hammer, for I was near enough
now to perceive that the savages too were redoubling their efforts and
it was still a chance which of us would reach the corner of the Rue de
l'Église first.

"Faster, Sweetheart, faster!" I urged in an agony of apprehension as I
pressed my knees close to Fatima's hot sides, and felt her breath
beginning to come in long laboring moans as my great weight (with
mademoiselle's added one, which might yet prove the last feather)
began to tell on her. Bravely she responded to my voice and stretched
out farther and faster at every stride, and in another moment, with
another tremendous swerve, we had turned the corner into the Rue de
l'Église with the foremost of the savages not twenty feet behind us. I
expected nothing less than a bullet in my back, and was glad indeed
that mademoiselle was in front of me, fully shielded by my broad
shoulders, for I knew whatever befell me Fatima would carry
mademoiselle into the garden and to the very door of Émigré's Retreat
before any savage could possibly reach her. But I felt no bullet, nor
did any whistle by my ears, and I wondered why, until I saw, what the
savage possibly saw too in the dim light, that mademoiselle (whose
head had been cowering on my breast like a child in great terror
trying to hide from the sight of danger) had, as we turned into the
Rue de l'Église, raised her head and looked boldly over my shoulder.

I have no doubt the savage feared to shoot, lest he should hit that
white face, and I did not doubt that was mademoiselle's plan, to use
herself as a shield for me. I was very angry with her, but I had only
time to draw her head roughly down on my shoulder again when we were
within the gates and, in a dozen mighty strides, at the very door of
Émigré's Retreat.

At the sound of clattering hoofs, Narcisse and half a dozen servants,
among them mademoiselle's maid, Clotilde, came running out on the
gallery. I sprang from my horse and lifted mademoiselle down, in too
great haste to be gentle, I fear.

"Take your mistress into the house and bar every door and window!" I
cried sharply. "The savages are after us!"

It needed but that word "savages" to lend wings of terror to the
usually slow and lazy movements of the negroes. With shrieks of women
and shouts of men, they dragged mademoiselle into the house, and I
heard the hasty putting up of bars. Then I turned to meet that one
savage who was so far in advance and who must by this time have
reached the gates. I had no fear, now that I was free of mademoiselle,
for I felt myself good for two or three of them, and I could even now
hear the clattering hoofs of Josef Papin's and Black Hawk's horse
coming down the lane, and they were a host in themselves. But by the
time I had reached the gate there was a great noise of shouts and
firing and wild halloos at the corner, and I ran on, knowing that
Papin and Black Hawk must have met the savages, and knowing that the
two would be outnumbered and greatly in need of my assistance.

But I had hardly got into the thick of the mêlée, cutting and slashing
with my sword for fear a shot would go astray and hit one of my
friends should I use my pistol, when the savages suddenly turned tail
and ran off, disappearing in the night like shadows. For a moment I
thought it was my prowess that had put them to flight, and I began in
my heart to plume myself thereon. But only for a moment, for up the
Rue des Granges and down the steep lane there came charging the
belated troops of Spanish horsemen (they had stupidly been scouring
the other end of the village, it seems), and would have charged full
upon us, no doubt,--since in the dark one could not tell friend from
foe,--had not young Papin called out in Spanish that we were friends
and belonged to Dr. Saugrain's party. Whereupon the officer halted
long enough to inquire in which direction the savages had fled, and
with many a round Spanish oath that he would not leave one of the red
dogs alive if he had to follow them to Cape Girardeau, he led his
troop clattering off toward the stockade. And no sooner had they
disappeared than down the steep lane came the rest of the party,
Madame Saugrain half dead with fright (for she had heard the sounds of
firing and of fighting, and feared the worst for Pelagie), the
doughty doctor and my captain not a little disappointed that they
should have missed the fray, and Yorke almost as much so, since it had
turned out to be such an easy victory.

But when I had told madame that Pelagie was safe in the house and the
savages had fled and, except for a scratch on my forehead that scarce
drew blood, no one was hurt (though at that very moment Black Hawk
came creeping back out of the darkness hanging a dripping scalp to his
belt, which when I perceived I was nigh sick unto death for a
moment)--when I told her all this (and, fortunately, madame did not
see Black Hawk's ugly trophy), she broke forth into a Te Deum and went
happily up to the house, where Pelagie herself came running out to
meet her, and they fell into each other's arms and, after the manner
of women, wept long and loud for joy, though they had shed no tears
when there might have been occasion for them.




CHAPTER XIII

"A PRETTY BOY!"

    "And to be wroth with one we love
    Doth work like madness in the brain."


At the door of the house, Black Hawk and Yorke branched off to the
servants' quarters, and I followed them to see what had become of
Fatima, for I had left her standing beside the gallery when I ran back
to meet the savage. I found her standing patiently by the stable door
waiting to be let in, and she whinnied with delight as she heard my
step. I called to Yorke to come and take care of her (for I was in
haste to get back to the house), and at the sound of my voice Leon
came rushing, in great bounds. Together we walked down to the well,
that I might wash the blood from my face before presenting myself to
the ladies. The well was in a low part of the grounds, some little
distance from the house, and it was while I was vigorously splashing
my hands and face that I heard a low growl from Leon. I looked up
quickly and thought I caught the glimpse of a gun, and instinctively I
sprang to one side, that if any one was aiming at me I might cheat him
of his aim. At the same moment Leon sprang with a terrible roar
straight at the spot where I had fancied I saw the metal shining and
where now I was sure I heard the rustle of some one fleeing. I
followed quickly after, for the thought of any human creature in the
power of that great beast in rage was awful to me. Enemy or no, I
would if possible save him from being torn to pieces by a furious dog.

As I ran, I called to him as I had heard his mistress call, and in
French, lest he might not understand English:

"À bas, Leon! Tais-toi, mon ange!" But the words had no meaning for
him in my gruff voice: it was the soft music of his mistress's tones
he understood and obeyed. I heard another furious roar, a wild shriek
as of a creature in mortal fear or pain, and then a shot. I was on the
spot almost before the shot had ceased to ring in my ears. There lay
Leon on the white snow, a dark mass writhing in what I feared was a
death-struggle, and above him stood the chevalier, his smoking pistol
in his hand. I knew as soon as I saw him in Indian costume that he was
the savage who had been the foremost of his band, who had followed us
so closely and had disappeared when I had gone to seek him. It was in
the doctor's garden he had disappeared and lain in hiding to
accomplish the capture or execute a revenge later.

My own pistol was in my hand, and I covered him with it. In that
moment of rage when Leon, whom I had learned to love and who loved
me,--Leon, _her_ dog,--great, beautiful, tried and trusty companion
and friend,--lay dying from a shot from that villain's hand: in that
moment of rage I came near putting an end at once and forever to a
life that I believed could never be anything but a curse to any mortal
associated with it. But the words of Pelagie rang in my ears and
stayed my hand:

"If it is in your power, save the chevalier!"

His own pistol was empty and he knew himself to be at my mercy, and
that his life was worth no more than the snuffing out of a candle;
yet, to do him justice, he held his ground and returned my gaze as
fearlessly as he might have done had we stood with drawn swords, each
ready for the thrust and parry.

The old moon had but lately risen, and, hanging low in the eastern
sky, her level rays fell full on the chevalier's face. It was white
enough, but that might have been the effect of her sickly light
reflected from the ghostly snow; the daredevil in his eyes said
plainly as words, "Do your worst!"

For a full half-minute I kept him covered, and for a full half-minute
he returned my steady gaze. Then suddenly there arose from the house
the noise of doors opening and shutting and the hurried tramp of feet.
I knew what it meant. The shot had been heard and they were coming to
see what had happened. In a moment they would all be upon us,--my
captain, the doctor, young Papin, yes, and Yorke and Black Hawk
too,--and there would be no possibility of saving the chevalier.

He heard the noise, also, and he too knew what it meant. For one
instant his eyes wavered and he looked as if he would turn and run,
spite of my threatening pistol. Only for an instant, and then he drew
himself up proudly and threw back his head.

"Fire, Monsieur," he said: "Why do you wait to let others share the
glory?"

For answer I lowered my pistol.

"Monsieur," I said, "you richly deserve death, and for a moment you
were in deadly peril; but Mademoiselle Pelagie, whom you would basely
wrong, pleads for you, and I spare your life at her intercession. If
you will turn and run directly south, there is a low place in the
wall, and on this side a pile of logs by which you may easily scale
it, and almost directly opposite a narrow opening in the stockade
through which you can force your way. But you must run for your life.
I will remain here and do what I can to prevent pursuit; 'twill be no
easy matter to keep Black Hawk off your trail."

Yet he did not start at once. He hesitated and his eyes fell; then he
looked up quickly and half extended his hand.

"Monsieur, you have been a generous foe; will you permit that I clasp
your hand?"

But a flood of memories rushed over me: his unswording me in the
dance; his attempt to steal mademoiselle at the picnic and to poison
her mind against her friends; this second attempt, where it was
through no fault of his that we were not all dead men and mademoiselle
far on her way to Cape Girardeau, in the power of savages and a
villain more to be dreaded than they. I put my hand behind me and said
coldly:

"My hand belongs to my friends and to a foe whom I can honor.
Monsieur, if you tarry longer, I will not be responsible for your
life."

Even in the pale light I could see the deep flush sweep his cheek and
his hand spring involuntarily to his sword-hilt. But he thought better
of it, turned, and strode quickly away toward the low spot in the
stone wall.

Then I had leisure to think of poor Leon. I knelt down beside him,
where a dark pool was rapidly widening in the white snow. I could see
where the red fountain gushed from a wound in his shoulder. It was
possible no vital part had been touched and he might be saved could
that gushing fountain of life-blood be stanched. As it was, his eyes
were already glazing and his limbs stiffening and his breath coming in
long-drawn sobs, like a man in extremity. He was like to breathe his
last before even those hurrying feet, fast drawing near, should reach
him. I knew enough of surgery to know that I must apply a tight
bandage above the wound; but where should I find a bandage? My flimsy
lace handkerchief was worse than useless. There was no help for it:
the purple silken sword-sash, of which I was mightily proud, whose
long fringed ends, tied in a graceful knot, fell almost to my knees,
must be sacrificed. I hastily unknotted it, and tenderly as possible,
that I might not hurt the poor fellow more than needs must (for his
flesh quivered under my touch), I bound it round the shoulder and with
all my strength drew it tight. Quickly the gushing fountain stayed,
and then taking from my pocket a flask that my mother herself had
always bid me carry, I forced a few drops into his fast-setting jaws.
I knew I had done the right thing when, by the time they had all come
up, Leon had lifted his head and was feebly licking my hand.

Their first exclamations of horror were followed by a hail of
questions:

"Who has done this?" "Where is he?" "Did you see him?" "How did it
happen?"

To all their questions I made but one answer:

"I heard the shot, and ran up to find Leon lying on the ground, dying
as I believed, and I have done what I could to help him."

"And you have saved his life, or, at least, if he lives, he will have
only you to thank," said Dr. Saugrain, who had been on his knees
beside Leon, examining him.

"You and your silken sash," he added, with the old twinkle of his eye.
"'Twas a noble sacrifice, and we all appreciate how great a one."

The good doctor was ever twitting me on what he was pleased to call my
love of dress; but I made him no answer this time, for I was watching
Black Hawk, who, with an Indian's cunning, had at once discovered the
footprints in the snow and that there was but one pair of them, and
was stealing off after them. That would never do.

"Great Chief," I cried, "'tis no use following the Red Dog; he has had
too long a start. Will you help us to carry the dog of La Petite to
the house, where we can put him in a warm bed? 'Twill never do to let
him lie in the snow, and 'twill take us all to carry him comfortably."

Black Hawk hesitated, and then grunted out an unwilling consent. I
think it seemed to him somewhat beneath the dignity of a great chief
to carry a dog, and only because of his love for La Petite did he
bring his mind to it. Nor did my little fiction about the Red Dog
deceive him.

"No Red Dog," he grunted. "White Wolf! Trail fresh. Black Hawk bring
his scalp to La Petite."

But the doctor saved me the necessity of arguing further with him.

"Red Dog or White Wolf, Black Hawk," he said, "n'importe! 'Tis the
mastiff we must look to now. A sad day 'twould be for all of us should
he die; so lend a hand, vite, vite!"

And this from the doctor, who had told me when I first met him he
would not have cared had I killed Leon, for he loved him not. The
truth was that the doctor's devotion to Leon and Leon's to him were
second only to the devotion of the dog and his mistress to each other,
though, owing to the fact that Leon often stalked into his laboratory
at inopportune moments, sometimes spoiling the most delicate
experiment by poking his great inquisitive muzzle where it did not
belong, the doctor's patience was sometimes tried almost beyond the
limit of endurance.

The doctor's exhortation, uttered in a sharp and clipping way peculiar
to him when excited, was effectual. Very tenderly between us all we
managed to lift the mastiff, and bore him to the negroes' quarters,
where, in Narcisse's cabin, we made him a warm bed and washed and
dressed his wound, and left him in a fair way to recovery.

I was a little behind the others in reaching the house, for I had
delayed about some last arrangements for Leon's comfort, and then it
had been necessary that I should make a hasty toilet. Hands and face
were soiled with blood and grime (my purple velvets I feared were
ruined forever, but I would not take the time to change them), and my
hair was in much disorder. A hasty scrubbing of hands and face and a
retying of my hair-ribbon to try to confine the rebellious yellow
curls that were tumbling all over my head, and that I so much
despised, were all I permitted myself time for. Yet the few minutes I
had lingered had been long enough for the launching of a thunderbolt,
and I arrived just at the moment to see the havoc it had made.

Mademoiselle in her ball-dress had thrown herself on her knees beside
madame, her white arms flung around madame's neck, her face buried in
her motherly bosom, sobbing piteously. Madame gently stroked the dark
curls, saying over and over only the same words, "My child, my child,
my poor child!" while the tears flowed down her own cheeks all
unnoticed.

The doctor stood beside her, patting as he could her white arm or dark
curls or tender cheek, and saying helplessly:

"Voilà, voilà! Quoi donc! N'importe, n'importe!" and many other as
senseless words, and growing every moment more hopeless and helpless
as mademoiselle but wept the more bitterly.

On the other side of the room stood young Papin, pale and rigid as if
carved in stone, his eyes fixed on mademoiselle. I feared that for him
too it had been a bitter blow, for I could not doubt that it was the
announcement of mademoiselle's departure on the morrow that had
created such consternation.

The captain had discreetly turned his back and was looking out of the
window. At the sound of my entrance he turned and beckoned me to him.

"I fear 'twill never do," he whispered; "the maiden is breaking her
heart."

As if she had heard his words, mademoiselle lifted her head, and
though her face was tear-stained and her hair hanging in disheveled
locks about it, it was still the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

At sight of me she flung her head back, and her eyes flashed. She
extended one round white arm toward me, and in tones of bitter scorn
she exclaimed:

"It is you, you, Monsieur, who have done this! I will not leave my
guardians and my home and go away with you! You would not hear of my
going with the chevalier, yet he was a French gentleman, and not
merely a pretty boy!"

Madame and the doctor tried in vain to stop her tirade. She was in a
fury; such blazing eyes, such crimson cheeks, and voice quivering with
scorn. For a moment I was abashed and would have liked to slink out of
sight. But when she was so ungenerous as to call me "a pretty boy,"
the fire returned to my heart, and I too drew myself up proudly.

"Mademoiselle, listen to me!" I said sternly. "I have but a few
minutes ago spared the chevalier's life when I had him at my mercy,
and shown him the way to escape from your friends here, who were
running at the sound of his shot, and who, had they found him in Dr.
Saugrain's grounds, would have made short work with him, I fear." (I
could not but note out of the corner of my eye while I was speaking
the quick start of young Papin at this announcement, the eager
interest of my captain, and the doctor's look of dismay.)

"I spared him, and I told him that I spared him, only because you had
begged me to do my utmost to save him if he should ever fall into my
power. I cannot believe that he would have treated me or any one of
your friends with the like courtesy. He is now well on his way to Cape
Girardeau, but I think he is not gone so far but that he can be easily
overtaken. Black Hawk is ready to set out at once; indeed, it is with
much difficulty that I have restrained him from so doing. Then, if you
desire it, and Dr. Saugrain and madame approve, you can return to
France under the chevalier's protection."

I lifted my hand as the doctor and his wife both started to speak.

"Nay, my friends, permit that mademoiselle first tells me her
pleasure."

Then, as mademoiselle (whose eyes were no longer flashing with scorn,
but regarding me with the same wonder I had seen in them before) did
not speak, I said, if possible with greater sternness:

"Speak at once, mademoiselle: shall we send for the chevalier and
bring him back? There is no time to be lost; every minute is carrying
him away from you as fast as a very good pair of legs for running can
take him."

I hope I did not exceed the limits of courtesy in so speaking of the
chevalier, but it was hard to resist a little fling at the "French
gentleman" to whom the "pretty boy" had been so disparagingly
compared. I caught a twinkle in the doctor's eye and a fleeting smile
on young Papin's face and on my captain's, but I looked only at
mademoiselle. She was meek enough now, but she no longer looked at me;
her dark lashes were sweeping her cheek.

"You need not send for him," she said.

"Then, mademoiselle," I went on, a little more gently, "it seems to me
and to your friends that the only other way to return to France is the
way we have planned. You will be as safe under Captain Clarke's care
as you would be under Dr. Saugrain's. He will take you to his sister,
Mrs. O'Fallon, who will be as a mother to you, until a suitable escort
can be found for you to New York to place you under Mr. Livingston's
care. As for me, I shall not in any way annoy you: you need not know I
am on the boat; and as soon as you are placed in Mrs. O'Fallon's care
I shall say good-by to you forever, and continue my journey east,
since it is indeed time I should be starting homeward. Dr. and Madame
Saugrain will assure you that this is the most feasible plan, and I
hope once more that you will not be deterred from accepting it by any
fear of annoyance from me. There will be none. If you decide to go
with us, we must make an early start, and there will be many things
for me to attend to. Captain Clarke will inform me of your decision,
and I will see Dr. Saugrain and madame in the morning. Till then, I
wish you all a very good night."

I made my grand bow, turned quickly, and left the room, though Dr.
Saugrain and his wife both tried to stay me, and young Papin sprang
forward with an eager hand to prevent me.

I was bitterly angry, and more hurt and disappointed than angry.
Outside I strode furiously up and down in the snow, calling myself a
fool that I should care. Mademoiselle might be a great lady in France,
I said to myself, but to me she had shown herself only a fickle,
capricious, silly maiden. But even as I so spoke to myself my heart
revolted. I saw her once more weeping in madame's arms, and I began to
think it was only natural and commendable in her that she should be so
stirred at the thought of leaving friends who had been so good to her,
and that I had been much harder with her than was well.

And at last, as I began to walk myself into a calmer frame of mind, I
could have wished that I had not made that rash promise to keep myself
out of her sight on the boat. My word was given and I would have to
stick to it, but in my own room, as I listened to the murmur of voices
still going on in the room below me, I thought no longer with anger,
but sadly enough, of the long delightful tête-à-têtes with
mademoiselle I had dreamed of when I had first planned this trip on
the Great River.

A bright drop suddenly fell on my hand. I brushed my eyes angrily.

"Domtiferation!" I whispered furiously to myself. "Mademoiselle was
right! A pretty boy indeed!"




CHAPTER XIV

A CREOLE LOVE-SONG

    "So sweetly she bade me adieu,
    I thought that she bade me return."


For three days we had been floating down the Great River, and for
three days I had kept my word. Mademoiselle had not been annoyed by
me; she had hardly seen me. Much to my captain's vexation, I had
refused to take my meals with him and mademoiselle, though our cozy
table of three had been one of the brightest parts of my dream when I
was planning this trip.

It was nearing the supper-hour on the evening of this third day. The
men were making ready to tie up for the night (for navigation on the
river at night was a dangerous matter), and for the hundredth time I
was wishing with all my heart that I had not been so rash as to make
that promise to keep out of mademoiselle's way. The vision of a hot
supper comfortably served in her warm and cozy cabin was of itself
sufficiently enticing, as all my meals since coming aboard had been
brought to me in any out-of-the-way corner of the deck, and I had
found them but cold comfort. Not that my resolution was weakening,
though my captain let no meal-hour pass without doing his best to
weaken it, and more than once had brought me a message from
mademoiselle herself begging me to join them at table. No; I was as
fixed as ever, and, in a way, enjoying my own discomfort, since to
pose as a martyr ever brings with it a certain satisfaction which is
its own reward.

The weather had been clear and mild up to this time; but this evening
an icy sleet was beginning to fall, and I glanced at mademoiselle's
cabin window, brightly lighted and eloquent of warmth and dryness, and
fetched a great sigh as I looked. A voice at my elbow said:

"Monsieur is sad?--or lonely, perhaps?"

I started, for I had supposed myself entirely alone on that end of the
boat--the men all busy with their tying-up preparations forward, and
mademoiselle and the captain in the cabin. I lifted my hat and bowed
ceremoniously.

"Neither, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle hesitated. I saw she felt repulsed, and I secretly
gloried in her embarrassment. Neither would I help her out by adding
another word; I waited for what she might say further.

"Monsieur," she said presently, "you have shown me much kindness in
the past, and done me great service. I would like to have you know
that I am not ungrateful."

"I do not desire your gratitude, Mademoiselle," I said coldly (though
it hurt me to speak so when she was so evidently trying to be friendly
with me). "No gentleman could have done less, even if he were not a
French gentleman."

The light from her cabin window fell full upon her. I could see that
she colored quickly at my retort, and half started to go away, but
turned back again.

"Monsieur," she said earnestly, "I have a very humble apology to make
to you. I hope you will forgive me for my rude and wicked speech. I
was beside myself with sorrow at the thought of being so suddenly torn
from my friends, and for the time nothing else weighed with me, not
even that you had just saved my life at the peril of your own. Ah, how
could I have been so base! I wonder not that you will not even look at
so mean a creature, and you do well to shun her as if she were vile."

No man could have resisted her sweet humility. For a moment all my
anger melted.

"Mademoiselle, do not apologize to me!" I cried. "If there are any
apologies to be made, it is I who should make them for not knowing how
to understand and appreciate what you felt."

A quick radiance sprang into her eyes, and with a childlike abandon
she extended both her hands to me.

"Then you forgive me?" she cried.

I took one hand and held it in both mine, and as I bent my knee I
lifted it to my lips.

"If I am forgiven, my Queen," I answered softly.

Her dark eyes, tender and glorious, looked down into mine. For a
moment I forgot she was a great lady in France; to me she was only the
most bewitching and adorable maiden in the wide world. She was
wearing a heavy capote to shield her from the weather, but the hood
had fallen slightly back, and the falling sleet had spangled the
little fringe of curls about her face with diamonds that sparkled in
the candle-shine, but were not half so bright as her starry eyes. I
could have knelt forever on the icy deck if I might have gazed forever
into their heavenly depths. But in a minute she let the white lids
fall over them.

"Rise, Monsieur," she said gently. "You are forgiven, but on one
condition."

"Name it, my Queen!" And I rose to my feet, but still held her hand.
"No condition can be too hard."

"That you come to supper with us to-night, and to every meal while I
am on your boat."

The condition fetched me back to earth with a shock. I remembered all
the cause, and I answered moodily:

"My word has been given, Mademoiselle; I cannot go back on my word."

"Your word was given to me, and I absolve you from it," she said.

"But in the presence of others," I objected. "I am bound by it, unless
I be shamed before them."

"Only your captain is here," she said, still gently; "and he, too,
urges it."

But still I was obdurate. Then at last she drew away her hand and
lifted her head proudly.

"Your Queen commands you!" she said haughtily, and turned and walked
away. Yet she walked but slowly. Perhaps she thought I would overtake
her, or call her back and tell her I had yielded. But I was still
fighting with my stubborn pride, and let her go. I watched her close
her cabin door, then for five minutes I strode rapidly up and down,
the slippery deck.

"Your Queen commands you!" I thrilled at her words. My Queen! Yes, but
only if I were her king. Now that I was away from her, and her glowing
eyes were not melting my heart to softest wax, I was resolved never
again to submit to her tyranny and caprice. I would go to supper,
because she commanded it; but I would never for a moment forget that
she was a great lady of France, and I a proud citizen of America--too
proud to woo where I could only meet with scorn.

So I went to my cabin and made a careful toilet, and when Yorke came
to call me to supper, I presented myself in mademoiselle's cabin. I
had not been in it since she had come aboard, and, though I had
carefully planned and arranged every detail of it for her comfort, I
would not have known it for the same place. What she had done to it I
know not; a touch here, a touch there, such as women's fingers know
how to give, and the bare and rough boat's cabin had become a dainty
little boudoir. The round table, draped in snowy linen, with places
set for three; the silver and glass shining in the rays from two tall
candles; Yorke and mademoiselle's maid Clotilde bringing in each a
smoking dish to set upon it; and mademoiselle standing beside it like
the glowing heart of a ruby, her dark beauty well set off by a gown of
crimson paduasoy, with rich lace through which the graceful neck and
rounded arms gleamed white and soft: it all looked to me like a
picture from one of Master Titian's canvases, and I could hardly
believe that if I should look through the closely drawn curtains I
would see the rough and dirty decks of our barge, and, beyond, the
dark forest of the Illinois shore, where even now hostile savages
might be lurking, ready to spring upon us with blood-curdling yells.

The captain was already there, chatting gaily with mademoiselle as I
came in, and he had the delicacy to make his greeting of me as natural
and unsurprised as if I had never been absent from the little board,
while mademoiselle added a touch of gracious cordiality to hers.

I was on my mettle. Determined that never again, even to herself,
should she call me a boy, I summoned to my aid all the _savoir-faire_
I could command. I was (at least, in my own estimation, and I hoped
also in hers) the elegant man of the world, discoursing at ease on
every fashionable topic, and, to my own amazement, parrying every
thrust of her keen repartee, and sometimes sending her as keen in
return. I think the situation had gone to my head. Certainly I had
never before thought myself a brilliant fellow, but when I rose to
make my bow to mademoiselle (and it was indeed a very grand one), I
hoped that even in her mind I would not suffer by comparison with any
French gentleman, no, though it were the chevalier himself.

I did not see mademoiselle again until the midday meal next day; for
all the morning I was busy with the men, making the difficult and
dangerous turn from the Great River into the Ohio, past Fort Massac.
Once in the Ohio, there was no surcease from hard work--poling,
paddling, or cordelling, sometimes all three together, to climb the
rushing stream.

Punctually at the noon-hour I presented myself at table, and again at
supper, and my good star did not desert me. Quip and repartee and
merry tale and polished phrase were all at my tongue's end, and no one
could have been more amazed than I at my own brilliancy.

But I lingered not a moment after the meal was over, and I never saw
mademoiselle between times. If she came out to take the air on deck, I
was hard at work with the men, sometimes taking my turn at paddling,
sometimes, though not often, at poling; but our crew of French
Canadians were better at that than I. Indeed, there are no such
fellows in the world for navigating these dangerous Western waters.

The weather had grown mild, and often in the evening I envied Yorke
(who had straightway, of course, made desperate love to Clotilde, who
was old enough to be his mother), sitting in the bow of the boat and
thrumming his banjo lightly as he sang her some creole love-song he
had picked up in St. Louis.

Our trip was fast drawing to a close. The last evening on the river
had arrived. We would tie up one more night; all hands at the cordelle
and the poles, we would reach Mrs. O'Fallon's by noon, in time for
dinner. I had determined not to linger there at all. I should go on,
the same afternoon, to my uncle's plantation, not many miles away,
and the next day start for the East. I had told mademoiselle I would
say good-by to her forever when we reached Mrs. O'Fallon's, but in my
own mind I was saying good-by to her now. It had been for several days
that I had felt the weight of this approaching hour, and my brilliance
had gradually departed. I had grown duller and quieter at each
succeeding meal, and mademoiselle, too, had grown quieter (she could
never be dull). Sometimes I fancied she looked sad, and once I was
sure I recognized the trace of tears in her beautiful eyes. There was
nothing strange in that; it would have been strange indeed if she
could have left home and friends, and started on a long and dangerous
journey (with no companion but the faithful negro woman who had been
nurse and lady's-maid and trusted friend for ten long years, but who
was still but servant and slave), and had not often been overcome with
sadness. Indeed, there were times, when she was merriest at the table,
when I had mentally accused her of heartlessness as I thought of the
two fond old people mourning for her in Émigré's Retreat. So, though I
would have liked to attribute some of mademoiselle's sadness to an
approaching separation, I had no grounds for so doing, and I scoffed
at myself for the attempt.

That last night at supper I made a desperate effort to be my gayest,
but it was uphill work, and the more so because neither the captain
nor mademoiselle seconded my efforts with any heartiness; so when
supper was ended, feeling that the hour had at last come, I stood as
mademoiselle rose from her seat, and instead of excusing myself at
once, as had been my custom, I lingered.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "we have had our last meal aboard together
(God prospering our voyage), and I desire to thank you for your
courtesy, and to say to you that whatever there may have been in our
intercourse during our brief acquaintance not pleasant to either of us
to hold in remembrance, I hope you will banish it from your memory, as
I shall from mine. I shall think of these weeks always as among the
brightest of my life, and perhaps, had I been a chevalier of France
instead of an American boy, I should not so easily have said good-by
to the Rose of St. Louis; it would have been au revoir instead!"

I was standing as I said it all formally, with the air of one making
pretty compliments: for I did not wish mademoiselle to know how every
word was from the depths of my heart; nor would I have lightly
betrayed myself before my captain, who was not apparently listening,
but had turned to give some instructions to Yorke.

Mademoiselle's color came and went as I spoke. She did not answer me
for a moment, and when she did it was in a low tone, and she seemed to
speak with effort:

"Monsieur, you are ungenerous! You will never forgive my unhappy
speech. Permit me to say you have taught me that a chevalier of France
may be outshone by an American gentleman in bravery, manliness, truth,
and honor--in every virtue except the doubtful one of knowing how to
utter pleasant insincerities to us maidens. And I will not say
good-by. Am I not to see you again?"

"I will certainly see you in the morning, Mademoiselle, but there may
be no time for more than a word, and so I take this opportunity to say
good-by."

"I will not say good-by, Monsieur"--with the old wilful toss of the
head. "I will tell your captain he is not to let you go back to
Philadelphia so soon. But no matter where you go, I will never say
good-by; it shall always be au revoir."

She smiled up at me with such bewitching grace that perforce I smiled
back at her, and if she had but asked me this evening, as she had on
many others, to linger in her cozy cabin for a game of piquet, I would
not have had the courage to say no. But she did not ask me, and, much
as I longed to stay, there was nothing for me to do but to pick up my
hat and say, with the best grace I could:

"I thank you with all my heart, Mademoiselle, and, for to-night at
least, au revoir!"

An hour later my captain and I were leaning on the rail in the stern
of the boat, looking up at the tree-crowned bluffs standing dark
against the moonlight and listening to the soft lapping of the water
against the boat's sides. We did not realize that we were hidden by a
great pile of peltries, as high as our heads, which Captain Clarke was
taking back to Kentucky with him to sell on commission for Pierre
Chouteau, until we heard voices. Mademoiselle and Clotilde had
evidently found a seat on the other side of the pile of pelts, and
mademoiselle was speaking in plaintive tone:

"And they would not let me bring Leon with me! He at least would have
loved me and been a companion and protector when all the world forsake
me."

Then Clotilde's rich negro voice:

"Mademoiselle, I find out why they not let you bring Leon. Mr. Yorke
tell me last night. Leon shot, the night before we come away."

There was a heartrending cry, and then a torrent of swift French:

"Leon shot! My Leon! Why have they not told me? Oh, the villains! Who
shot him, Clotilde? My poor angel! My Leon! No one left to love your
poor mistress!" And much more that I cannot recall, I was so excited
and angry that that rascal Yorke should have caused her such needless
pain. But every word of Clotilde's next speech was graven on my heart
as with a knife of fire.

"Mr. Yorke say they all hear the shot, and they all run out to see
what the matter, and there stood the lieutenant with pistol in his
hand, and Yorke say he don' _think_ he shoot him, but--"

Clotilde had no chance to say another word.

"Shoot my Leon! He! Ah, I could not have believed such baseness! He
never forgave him for throwing him down-stairs! His last act before
leaving Émigré's Retreat! Oh, mon Dieu, what perfidy! What a monster!"

And every word was so interrupted with sighs and moans and sobs as
would have melted a heart of stone.

As for me, I was nearly turned to stone, such horror did I feel that
she should think me guilty of so base a deed. I had no thought of
acting in my self-defense, but my captain started up at once with a
quick exclamation, and, seizing my arm, dragged me around the pile of
pelts. There was mademoiselle, seated on a low bundle of them, weeping
as if her heart would break, and Clotilde trying in vain to stay the
torrent she had set loose.

"Mademoiselle," said the captain, quickly, "there has been some
terrible mistake. It was the chevalier who shot Leon; it was this lad"
(laying his arm affectionately across my shoulders) "who saved his
life."

Now half the joy of this speech to me was taken out of it by the
captain's way of treating me as a boy--I think the captain never
thought of me in any other light; and I made up my mind on the instant
that I should seize the very first opportunity to beg him, at least in
mademoiselle's presence, to treat me as a man.

But mademoiselle was so concerned with the matter of the captain's
speech, she paid no heed to its manner; and it chagrined me not a
little that her first thought was for Leon, and not that I was
innocent.

"Saved his life!" she cried. "Is my Leon alive?"

"He is, Mademoiselle," I said coldly, "and I have every reason to
believe he is doing well. My 'last act' before leaving Émigré's
Retreat was to visit him in Narcisse's cabin. I renewed his dressing,
and left minute instructions as to his care. We had thought to spare
you this anxiety, Mademoiselle, but two blundering servants have
undone our plans."

"Ah, Monsieur," cried mademoiselle, impetuously, springing to her feet
and extending both her hands to me in her pretty French fashion, "how
unjust I have been to you! How can I ever thank you enough for your
care of my poor Leon? Your last act in the cold and dark of the early
morning, and the hurry of departure, to see that my Leon was taken
care of, and I have accused you of making it one of base revenge! Ah,
Monsieur, can you ever forgive me?" half whispering.

I had taken her hands and was holding them as I looked down into her
radiant eyes. I bent low and kissed them both, first one and then the
other, as I said (very low, so that the captain and Clotilde should
not hear):

"Mademoiselle, I can forgive you everything."

But I needed not to speak so low, for when I lifted my head the
captain and Clotilde had both disappeared. And whither they had gone,
or why, I neither knew nor cared. For now a mad intoxication seized
me. This was the last evening I should ever spend with mademoiselle in
this world; why should I not enjoy it to the full? For the hundredth
time we had had our misunderstanding and it had cleared away; now
there should be no more misunderstandings, no more coldness, nothing
but joy in the warm sunshine of her smiles.

So I begged her once more to be seated and to atone for all that was
unkind in the past by letting me talk to her. There could have been no
better place, outside of her cozy cabin, for this long-dreamed-of
tête-à-tête, which now at last was to have a realization, than this
she had herself chosen. The pile of pelts at her back kept off the
east wind, the young moon in the west shone full upon her face, so
that I could feast my eyes upon its glorious beauty (for the last
time, I said to myself) and interpret every changing expression.

And yet, just at first, I was afraid I was going to be disappointed,
after all. Mademoiselle was embarrassed and constrained, and it was
I--I, the gauche and unsophisticated "boy"--who had to gently disarm
her fears and lead her back to her bright and natural way. And this is
how I did it. Mademoiselle had seated herself at my request, almost
awkwardly, if awkwardness were possible to her, so much afraid was she
she was not doing quite the proper thing.

"I cannot imagine what has become of Clotilde," she said nervously. "I
did not send her away."

"I think she has gone to find Yorke and set him right about Leon," I
answered, smiling.

She smiled slightly in return, but still with some embarrassment.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "have you observed that Yorke has been making
himself very agreeable to Clotilde?"

"What folly!" she exclaimed. "Clotilde is an old woman. I spoke to her
about it quite seriously to-day."

"And what did she say, Mademoiselle?"

"She said that she found Yorke most entertaining. 'One must be
amused,' were her words, and she made me feel very young with her
worldly wisdom. 'We do not contemplate matrimony, Mam'selle, but Mr.
Yorke and I both think there may be an affinity of spirit, regardless
of difference in age'! I was amazed at her philosophical attitude."

"How did you reply to her, Mademoiselle?"

"She quite took my breath away, but I only said, 'Clotilde, you will
oblige me by seeing as little as possible of Yorke on the remainder of
the trip.' I had fully intended to keep her with me this evening, and
now she has slipped away. I think I ought to go and find her," half
rising as she spoke.

"By no means," I answered quickly. "Indeed, I am quite on Clotilde's
side."

"On Clotilde's side! Impossible, Monsieur! Such arrant nonsense!"

All this time I had been standing, for from a maidenly shyness (rather
new in her, and which I liked) she would not ask me to sit beside her,
and there was no other seat. Now I said:

"Mademoiselle, if you will permit me to share your bundle of pelts, I
believe I can prove to you that it is not such arrant nonsense, after
all."

"Certainly, Monsieur," a little stiffly; "I am sorry to have kept you
standing so long."

She drew her skirts a little aside, and I sat down, quite at the other
end of the bundle of pelts, but nearer to her than I had been in many
long days. Then, in a purposely didactic and argumentative way, I
cited to her all the instances in history I could think of, winding up
with Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos, until by entering into the
argument she had entirely forgotten herself and her embarrassment.
Then suddenly into a little break in our conversation there came the
clear whinny of Fatima. She was on the other boat, tied close to ours,
and as we were in the stern and she in the bow, she had no doubt heard
her master's voice and was calling him. I was greatly tempted to call
her by the whistle she knew, but I did not quite dare. She would have
broken all possible bounds to come to me in answer to that whistle,
and I would not have been surprised to see her clear the space between
the two boats.

"That was Fatima," mademoiselle said, and sighed a little.

"Yes," I said, "and I think I could tell what your sigh meant."

"Did I sigh?"

"Yes, and it meant, 'I wish it were Leon.'"

"Yes," she said; "I was thinking how much Fatima loves you, and Leon,
too, as soon as he was able to forgive your disgracing him so. I think
all dogs and horses love you, Monsieur."

"That is because I love them, Mademoiselle."

"Does love always beget love?"

"Not always, Mademoiselle; sometimes it begets scorn."

"Then I suppose the love dies?"

"No, Mademoiselle; unhappily, it but grows the stronger."

"That is folly, is it not?"

"Mademoiselle, if you will allow me to be a philosopher like
Clotilde--love has no regard for sense or wisdom, else would Yorke
love one of his own age, and I would love one of my own country and my
own rank."

She said not a word for a long time, but sat with downcast eyes.
Suddenly she lifted them, and they shone with a softer radiance than I
had ever seen in them before.

"Of what were you thinking, Mademoiselle?" I said gently.

She hesitated a moment, and then like the soft sigh of a zephyr came
her words:

"I was wishing you were a chevalier of France."

"And I, Mademoiselle, was wishing you were a maiden of St. Louis, as I
supposed you were when I first saw you."

"I would not have been of your country, even then," she said, with
delicious shyness, half looking at me, half looking away in pretty
confusion.

"Not now, but you soon would be. St. Louis will belong to us some
day."

"Never!" She spoke in hot haste, all the patriot firing within her,
and looking full at me with flashing eyes. "St. Louis will be French
some day, as it used to be, I believe with all my heart; but American,
_never_!"

"Mademoiselle, we had a wager once. Shall we have one more?"

"Is it that St. Louis will one day be American?"

"Yes."

"I am very willing to wager on that, for it is a certainty for me.
What shall be the stakes?"

"Mademoiselle, they would be very high."

"I am not afraid."

I thought for a moment, and then I shook my head.

"Mademoiselle, I dare not. I am sure St. Louis will one day be ours,
but the time may be long, and by that day the worst may have happened.
You may have found your chevalier of France."

She looked up at me in a quick, startled way, which changed gradually
to her old proud look.

"Monsieur, I know not what stakes you had in mind, but this I know: if
'twere a lady's hand it were unworthy you and her. A lady's hand is
for the winning by deeds of prowess or by proof of worth, not by
betting for it as though 'twere a horse or a pile of louis d'or."

"Mademoiselle," I cried in an agony of shame, "forgive me, I beg.
Forgive a poor wretch who saw no chance of winning by prowess or
worth, and who was so desperate that he would clutch at any straw to
help him win his heart's desire."

Her look softened at once, and when she spoke again 'twas in her
gentlest tones.

"Monsieur," she said, "to-morrow we part, and it would seem there is
but little chance that we shall see each other again in this world.
Fate has placed our lots on different continents, with wide seas
between. But for to-night let us forget that. Let us think we are to
meet every day, as we have met in these weeks, and let us have a happy
memory of this last evening to cherish always."

I could not speak for a moment. Her voice, its sweet tones breaking a
little at the last, unmanned me. I turned away my head, for I would
not let her see the workings of my face, nor my wet eyes, lest she
think me boyish again. It was the sealing of my doom, but I had known
it always. And there was a drop of sweet amid the bitter that I had
never dared hope for. She, too, was sad--then she must care a little.
In a minute I was able to turn toward her again and speak in a firm,
low voice.

"You are right, Mademoiselle; we will be happy to-night. Come," I
said, rising and extending my hand to her, "let us go watch the
revelers on the other boat; they, at least, are troubled by no useless
regrets."

She put her hand in mine, and we went back by the stern rail and stood
watching the scene below us.

A plank had been thrown from one boat to the other to make easy
communication, and the crew of our boat, with the exception of the two
left always on guard, had crossed over. They had cleared a space for
dancing, and lighted it by great pine-knots cut from the forest close
by. Yorke, set high on a pile of forage with his beloved banjo, was
playing such music as put springs into their heels. Canadians and
negroes were all dancing together--the Frenchmen with graceful
agility, the negroes more clumsily, even grotesquely, but with a
rhythm that proved their musical ear. Clotilde and a negress cook were
the only women, and greatly in demand by both Frenchmen and negroes.
Clotilde rather scorned partners of her own color, and was choosing
only the best-looking and the best dancers of the white men, with a
caprice worthy of her mistress, I thought, and probably in imitation
of her. Yorke did not seem to mind, but with the gayest good humor
called out the figures as he played. Suddenly, as he wound up the last
figure with a grand flourish, he beckoned to a little Canadian who had
been specially agile in the dance, and they held a whispered
consultation. Then Yorke resigned his banjo to him, and, leaping down
into the middle of the floor, seized Clotilde about the waist without
so much as saying "By your leave," and shouted:

"Choose partners for a waltz!"

Consternation followed, for not more than half a dozen had ever seen
the new French dance. But when the little Canadian started up with his
witching _trois-temps_, Yorke and Clotilde glided off rhythmically to
its strains, the half-dozen followed, more or less skilfully, and the
rest stood round gazing in respectful admiration.

Now I had learned the waltz at home in Philadelphia, but it had never
been danced at the St. Louis parties, and I knew not whether
mademoiselle knew the step or not. Yet was I seized with a great
desire to follow Yorke's example.

"Mademoiselle," I said timidly, "why cannot we have a dance here? See,
there is a clear space on the deck, and the music is good."

"I waltz but poorly, Monsieur," she answered, looking up at me with a
bright blush. "Madame Saugrain taught me the step, but I have
practised it but little."

"Then we will be the better matched," I answered gaily. But when I had
put my arm around her waist, and one of her beautiful hands rested on
my shoulder, and I held the other in my firm clasp, I was seized with
such trembling at my boldness in daring to hold her so near that
almost my feet refused to move. Yet as soon as we were both gliding to
the Canadian's music there was no longer any fear in my heart, only a
great longing that the music might never cease and that we could go on
forever circling to its strains. Wild thoughts whirled in my brain.
Why need mademoiselle go back to Paris? I believed, as I bent my head
and looked into her dark eyes uplifted to mine, that only a little
persuasion would be needed to make her give it all up. And I said to
myself, "I will try."

But the music stopped. Mademoiselle gently withdrew herself from my
encircling arm, and suddenly cold reason returned. How could I dream
of betraying Dr. Saugrain's trust! How could I think of persuading her
to relinquish the glories awaiting her for me! And, most of all, how
could I dare to think she could be persuaded!

Mademoiselle had thrown off her capote before beginning to dance; I
picked it up and put it around her, and led her back to her seat on
the pelts. But she would not sit down.

"No, Monsieur," she said; "our evening is over. I am going to my
cabin. Will you send for Clotilde and tell her that I want her?"

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" I cried, my heart in my mouth to beg her
not to leave me without one word of hope. But then I stopped. It was
all over; the world had come to an end.

"It is good-by, then, Mademoiselle?" I said steadily, and holding out
my hand to her.

"No, Monsieur," she said, with that voice that from the first time I
heard it had ever seemed to me the sweetest in the world. "'Tis _au
revoir--toujours, toujours au revoir_!"

I watched her close her cabin door and turned back to my place by the
rail, black despair in my heart, but just one little ray of hope
brightening it--her courageous _au revoir_. Over the plank came Yorke
and Clotilde, and strolled slowly up the deck together, Yorke
thrumming his banjo and singing a creole love-song he had learned in
St. Louis:

        "Tous les printemps
        Tan' de nouvelles,
        Tous les amants
        Changent de maîtresses.
    Qu'ils changent qui voudront,
    Pour moi, je garde la mienne."

Insensibly my heart lightened. "Pour moi, je garde la mienne," I said
aloud, and added in a whisper:

"Yes--though I must first win her, and win I will!"




CHAPTER XV

"AU REVOIR"

    "While memory watches o'er the sad review
    Of joys that faded like the morning dew."


It was a busy morning that followed--no time for idle thoughts or vain
regrets. If we were to dine with Mrs. O'Fallon at Mulberry Hill, all
hands must work hard.

A line of ten men with the cordelle was attached to each boat to pull
it up the stream, and at the same time ten more on each boat planted
the great pole at the bow, and then, pushing on it, walked back to the
stern, lifted it out of the soft mud, carried it forward to the bow,
planted it again in the mud, and, pushing mightily, again walked back
to the stern. In this way we made great progress. We moved as fast as
the ten men on shore carrying the cordelle could walk, and the men at
the pole lightened their load so greatly, they were able to walk at a
good round pace.

So it was not yet quite noon when the white walls of Mulberry House
came in view, the blue smoke curling from its chimneys giving promise
of good cheer awaiting us. The men at the cordelle walked faster, the
men at the pole pushed harder, and, there being here a chance to use
them, two great sweep-oars were fastened in the rowlocks, and, four
men at each oar, we went forward at such a gait that the water curled
back from our prow in two foaming streams, and before many minutes we
were running our nose into the bank at the foot of Mulberry Hill.

Down the bank came a long line of men and boys, chiefly negroes,
shouting in every key, and running to catch the ropes our crew were
throwing them, and tying us fast to big stumps left standing on the
bank for that purpose.

Foremost to step foot on board was young John O'Fallon, running first
to greet his uncle William, whom next to his uncle General Clarke he
thought the greatest man on earth, and then coming to greet me, whom
he called "cousin" in his kindly Southern fashion, for I could not
claim to be kin. He was a bright, engaging lad of twelve or thirteen,
"with the manners of a chevalier of France," I said laughingly to
mademoiselle, when my captain was bringing him up to present to her.
She was greatly taken with him at once, and as for him, 'twas a case
of love at first sight, and he took full possession of her, giving me
small chance to help her off the boat or up the hill.

At the top of the hill, Aunt Fanny, as his mother always insisted I
should call her, was waiting for us. She kissed me on each cheek and
called me "my boy" in a manner that made me feel very young indeed.
Much as I loved her, I could have wished that in mademoiselle's
presence she had treated me as one too old for such gracious
liberties. But mademoiselle seemed not to notice her greeting to me;
she had eyes only for the beautiful and charming woman and her manly
little son. Indeed, I felt so much left out in the cold (for, after
the manner of women, the two instantly made violent love to each
other) that I was not sorry to find letters awaiting me from my uncle,
inclosing letters from home that required my instant attention. When I
had read them I knew not whether to be sorry or glad. I had fully
intended to make no stay at all at Mulberry Hill, but go on at once to
my uncle's; but now that there was no chance left me,--that marching
orders I dared not disobey ordered me East at once,--I realized that
lurking in the depths of my heart had been a secret hope that
something would happen to delay me longer in mademoiselle's society.

I was at once busy with preparations for a more hasty departure than I
had expected, so that I saw neither Mrs. O'Fallon nor mademoiselle
again until we were seated at the long table in the great dining-room
overlooking the river, which here makes a wide and graceful sweep to
the south. The warm winter sun was flooding the room through its many
windows, lighting up the table with its brave show of silver and glass
and snowy linen, and by its cheery glow warming all hearts and setting
all tongues free, so that there was a pleasant confusion of talk, such
as a hostess dearly loves. It was a bright and happy scene, and every
face was smiling and every heart was gay save one; for I could not
hope that mademoiselle's bright smile and beaming glance disguised
another aching heart.

I was seated at Mrs. O'Fallon's left hand; a Mr. Thruston, whom I had
never met, but who was evidently paying earnest court to the charming
widow, was on her right; and mademoiselle was almost at the other end
of the long table, between Captain Clarke and young John--about as far
from me as possible, which, since it was to be our last meal together,
I felt to be a distinct grievance. But as no one was to blame but Aunt
Fanny, and she had set me beside her to do me honor, I could not well
find fault.

It was in response to her asking me to show some little courtesy to
Mr. Thruston after dinner (I do not now recall what) that I told her I
must set out on my journey as soon after dinner as I could start. Her
short, sharp exclamation of surprise and displeasure caught the
attention of all the table.

"Brother William, do you hear that?" she called to my captain. "Our
kinsman leaves us immediately."

Aunt Fanny spoke with her knife poised in air. A noble great bird, a
wild turkey, was on the platter before her, oozing a rich brown gravy
from every pore. With a deftness I have never seen equaled, she had
been separating joints and carving great slices of the rich dark meat,
sending savory odors steaming up into my nostrils. Now, as she paused
in her work to make her announcement, there arose instantly a chorus
of remonstrances, loudest from young John and his younger brother Ben.
I answered them modestly, I hoped, looking at everybody except
mademoiselle, who yet, I saw distinctly, turned very pale, then red,
then pale again.

I addressed myself directly to Captain Clarke:

"My uncle has forwarded me letters from home, requiring my presence
there as shortly as possible. The letters do not enlighten me as to
the reasons for haste, and I am naturally beset with some misgivings,
but I hope all is well with my family."

My captain smiled inscrutably.

"Set your anxieties at rest, my lad. I also found a letter awaiting me
from your father. It explains the reasons for haste, but wishes them
kept from you for the present; but they are of the most agreeable
nature, and all is well at home."

I was greatly relieved, and so expressed myself.

"But why start immediately?" my captain continued. "You will have to
wait for a boat, and the waiting had best be done here."

"I have found one, sir," I answered. "It is expected up the river this
afternoon, and goes as far as Clarksville. My instructions are to go
by way of Washington, and call on Mr. Jefferson, so nothing could suit
me better, for I find the road from Clarksville to Washington is
comparatively short, and the boat is a small keel-boat and likely to
make good time."

"Well, well!" said my captain, pleasantly, "you must have been hard at
work to find out all this between landing and dinner; but I know the
reasons for haste are imperative, and you are quite right to set off
at once."

Then suddenly mademoiselle spoke up:

"Mon Capitaine, if monsieur is going just where I must go, why do not
I and Clotilde go with him?"

There was a moment's embarrassing silence, and then I, feeling the
silence unbearable and a great discourtesy to mademoiselle, answered
her.

"Mademoiselle, nothing could give me greater pleasure if my captain
and Aunt Fanny think it could be arranged. But I fear the route would
be a hard one for a lady's traveling, since the boat goes only to
Clarksville, and from there to Washington there is but a bridle-path,
and a very rough one."

Then everybody broke forth at once, volubly:

"Oh, no, no, no! We cannot think of letting you go!"

"Indeed, miss," said Aunt Fanny, in her pretty imperious way, "you may
think yourself fortunate if you get away from here any time in the
next two months. We do not get hold of a lovely young lady visitor
very often, and when we do we mean to keep her as long as we can. And
here is my son John over head and ears in love." (Young John blushed
like a peony.) "Would you break his heart, madam? And Ben is no
better" (for Ben had been slyly laughing at his brother's
discomfiture, but now looked very silly indeed as he took his share of
his mother's tongue-lash). "You will be having my family at
loggerheads if you stay, no doubt, but stay you must, for now that we
have once seen you, there is no living without you."

Mademoiselle took the speech adorably (as I knew she would, though I
doubt whether she understood half of it), smiling and blushing, and
saying in her pretty baby-English that they were very good to her, and
she would not break "Meester Jean's" heart, no, nor "Meester Ben's";
she would stay with "dear madame."

If I did not thereupon fetch a long and deep sigh from the very bottom
of my boots, it was not because it was not there to fetch, as I
thought of all I was missing in not spending a happy two months with
mademoiselle under Aunt Fanny's delightful roof.

But I had short time to indulge vain regrets. We were in the midst of
dessert, a huge bowl of steaming punch brewed by Aunt Fanny before our
eyes, and a great Christmas cake, which she said she had saved for our
home-coming, when a small negro burst open the door in great
excitement.

"Hi, Miss Fanny, she's comin'!"

"Who's coming, Scipio? And where are your manners? Go tell your mother
if she doesn't teach you how to come into a room properly, I will have
to take you in hand."

It was a terrible threat, and had been many times employed--always
successfully, for "Miss Fanny" never did "take in hand" the small
darkies, and so, having no notion of what taking in hand might mean,
all the terrors of mystery were added to their fears. Young Scipio was
greatly abashed, and pulled his forelock respectfully as he answered
Mrs. O'Fallon's question.

"It's de boat, missus; she's comin' roun' de ben'."

In a moment all was confusion. There was no time to be lost. Yorke was
despatched to get together my belongings, see that they were carried
to the landing, and himself lead Fatima down the bank and on to the
boat; for to no other would I trust my beauty. The boat by this time
had nearly reached the landing, and there was a hurry of good-bys,
Aunt Fanny shedding tears of vexation that my visit should be so
short, and calling me her "dear boy," and kissing me and scolding me
in one breath.

She and mademoiselle walked as far as the top of the bluff with me (I
would not let them come farther, for the bank was steep and muddy),
and then I said my good-by to mademoiselle. I raised her hand to my
lips as I said it, and she looked straight into my eyes with eyes that
shone with something brighter than smiles as she answered:

"Au revoir, monsieur!"

The captain of the keel-boat was shouting to us to make haste, and
there was no time for another word; and I was glad to have it so, for
another word might have made me indeed the boy Aunt Fanny was always
calling me.

The two boys, Mr. Thruston, and my captain went down to the boat with
me (which proved to be a more comfortable one than I had dared to hope
for), and Fatima having been coaxed aboard and quarters found for her
in a warm shed, and my captain pressing my hand with an affectionate
"Good-by, dear lad," that was once more near to my undoing, we were
untied, and the men at the poles pushed hard and walked rapidly back
to the stern, and the men at the cordelle pulled all together, with a
long-drawn "Heave, ho, heave!" and we were off.

I stood in the stern watching the two figures on the bluff until one
of them went away and there was only one, slender and of but little
stature, with soft dark curls, and eyes whose tender glow I could feel
long after the figure was but one indistinct blur, with a white hand
waving farewell.

Then came another bend in the river and shut her from my sight. And
there was naught left to me of Mademoiselle Pelagie but a memory of
tears and smiles; of hard words and gentle ones; of cold looks and
kind ones; of alternate hopes and fears on my side; of scorning
and--yes, I believed it with all my heart--of scorning and loving on
hers.




CHAPTER XVI

A VIRGINIA FARMER

    "Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
    In action faithful, and in honour clear."


"What, Fatima! You refuse?"

I dismounted and led her carefully down the steep bank and on to the
ferry-boat. She followed me very willingly, but I stood with my arm
over her glossy neck, for I saw she eyed the water distrustfully, and
while I had no fear of her being disobedient to my word of command, I
knew it would comfort her to feel my arm about her neck. She neighed
her appreciation, and gently rubbed her nostrils against my side, ever
a token of affection with her. When the boat began to move, the two
stalwart negroes pulling at their great oars and chanting dismally in
time to their pulling, Fatima again showed signs of excitement, but I
easily quieted her, and then I had leisure to use my eyes.

This crossing the Potomac to Washington reminded me vividly of
crossing the Mississippi to St. Louis more than three months before.
Nor did the capital look more impressive at this distance than the
village of St. Louis. Both were embowered in trees, and, but for the
two imposing white buildings,--the President's Palace and the
Capitol,--Washington was much the less prepossessing village of the
two, and I thought how much more worthy was our own city of
Philadelphia to be the capital of the nation.

Indeed, when I had led Fatima off the ferry, she sank over her
fetlocks in mud, and I had to lead her some distance before I found
ground firm enough to warrant my mounting her, lest my weight should
make the poor creature flounder hopelessly in the mire.

I bore in my pocket a letter from Captain Clarke introducing me to Mr.
Meriwether Lewis, which he had written at Mulberry Hill, after the
boat that was to bear me away was in sight, and also an address he had
given me of a respectable innkeeper where I might find lodging. The
inn was my first quest, and that once found and a suitable toilet
made, I was eager to present my letter of introduction, and, if chance
favored me, meet the President also.

It was still early, and the road I found myself upon (for it could not
be called a street, since there were no pavements and only at long
intervals a house) was filled with a well-dressed throng all wending
their way in one direction. It seemed to me too early an hour for
gentlemen to be seeking a place of amusement, and too late and the
throng too generally well dressed to be on their way to business. Some
were in coaches, with coachmen in livery on the box and footmen
standing up behind, and some were on horseback and some on foot, but
all, or nearly all, were wearing silk stockings and fine ruffled
shirts and carefully powdered queues and shining shoe-buckles.

A little stretch of brick sidewalk gave an air of distinction to a
solidly built two-story house with sloping roof and dormer-windows,
and in front of the house, on a stool planted on the curb, sat an old
negro, bandy-legged, with snowy wool, industriously polishing a row of
shoes neatly arranged in front of him, and crooning happily a
plantation melody as he worked. I drew Fatima to the curb.

"Good morning, uncle," I said as the negro slowly lifted his head,
bowed over his brush. "Can you tell me who all these people are and
where they are going?"

"Mohnen, marsa," the negro returned politely, and then looked at me
with round-eyed astonishment. "Yo' dunno whar they's gwine? Why, sah,
dey's de Senatahs and Represenatahs, sah, and dey gwine to de Cap'tul,
sah."

Of course! It was very stupid of me not to have thought of it. The
negro evidently thought so, too, but a sudden excuse suggested itself
to him.

"Mought yo' be a stranger in Washington, sah?" with a glance of such
undisguised pity for any barbarian who did not know the capital that I
felt myself coloring, and to recover my self-respect assured him that
I had set foot in this "domtiferous" mud-hole for the first time just
fifteen minutes before.

He was greatly impressed with my emphatic word, and addressed me with
much-increased respect.

"Den, sah, if I might be so libertious, p'r'aps yo' like me to p'int
out de 'stinguished gen'lemen."

Nothing could have pleased me better, and I drew Fatima still closer
to the curb while Bandy Jim--for that, he said, was his
name--proceeded to point out the celebrities.

There was passing at that moment a very elegant coach, with mounted
postilions in pink plush and gold lace, and an exceedingly handsome
man with an aristocratic face leaning back among the cushions, his
eyes half closed, as if mentally conning a speech for delivery in
Congress. Bandy Jim did not wait for the eager question on the tip of
my tongue.

"Dat, sah, is de welfiest and most 'stocratic gen'leman in Washington.
Dat am Mistah Gubernoor Morris of de gre't city of New York. I 'low he
studying dis minnit on a speech 'bout de Mississippi Riber and dem
Spanish men."

I looked at him again, more eagerly than before. I knew Gouverneur
Morris well by reputation, though I had never seen him, as one of the
most polished and scholarly men of the country, and the devoted friend
of Hamilton, whom I idolized as all that was brilliant, great, and
noble. But my eagerness was largely due to Bandy Jim's suggestion that
they were discussing the Mississippi question in Congress, and as I
looked more keenly I hoped he was on the right side, for I thought
that broad white brow could think great thoughts and those clear-cut
lips could utter them with force.

"Why do you think it will be on the Mississippi this morning, uncle?"
I inquired, amused that the old darky should seem to know the doings
in Congress. "Do you go up to the Capitol to listen to the debates?"

"Sometimes, sah, but mos'ly I reads dem in de 'Post,' sah!" And the
proud air with which he let me know of his unusual accomplishment
beggars description.

"And so you can read, Uncle? And who taught you?"

"Ole Miss, sah. I's a free nigger, sah. Ole Miss gib me my papers so I
mought stay wid my fambly when she follow de gin'ral and his father to
Mulberry Hill in Kaintuck'."

I confess Bandy Jim seemed like an old friend at once when I found he
had belonged to the Clarkes, and in my delight at seeing "one of the
family" in a strange land, I slipped from Fatima's back and grasped
him by the hand.

When he found I was just from Kentucky and Mulberry Hill, he was more
excited than I, and especially was he eager for news of "Marse
William."

"He mah baby, sah!" he repeated over and over, his old eyes shining
with visions of other days.

"An' Yorke, sah,--you know Yorke?--he mah son!" with great dignity and
much evident pride in a son of such distinction.

I had many things to tell him of Yorke's prowess and address that
pleased the old fellow greatly. I might also have recounted the many
times when I had had all the will in the world to horsewhip the
rascal, but I did not distress his old father with any of his
shortcomings.

The morning was fast slipping away when I bethought me it was time to
be looking up my lodging and making myself ready for my call at the
President's Palace. I flung Bandy Jim a piece of gold and told him I
would see him again. And then as I was in the act of mounting Fatima
it occurred to me he could no doubt direct me.

"Can you tell me how to find the Mansion House, Uncle?"

"Right here, sah," grinning with delight; and sure enough, what had
seemed to me the home of some respectable citizen proved to be mine
inn. And a very good one indeed; for when Bandy Jim had called a boy
to lead Fatima around the house to the stables in the rear, and
another to take me in to the landlord, I found myself in as clean and
comfortable a hostelry as one could hope to find. My chamber was a
large square one, on the second landing, and from its windows I could
catch glimpses through the bare trees of the white building on the
hill that I knew was the Capitol.

And when a boy had brought my saddle-bags, Bandy Jim himself hobbled
in to help me dress. He had been body-servant to both General Clarke
and his father, and, old as he was, bent nearly double and dim of
sight, his fingers were skilled for lacers and laces, for buckles and
ribbons.

I thought I looked quite as a gentleman should for a morning call at
the "White House," for that, I understand, is what Mr. Jefferson
prefers to have the President's Palace called. Indeed, I have heard he
very vehemently objects to having it called a palace at all. I was
wearing a plain cloth habit of dark green with no lace at wrist or
knee and only a small lace tie at the neck. My shoe-buckles were of
the plainest silver, but Bandy Jim had polished them till they shone
like new. I had some thoughts of deferring my visit until later in the
day, when I might with a good grace have worn satin and velvet and
fine lace ruffles, for I am afraid I was something of a beau in those
days in my liking for dress. But bethinking me that the plainness of
my costume would only be an additional recommendation in the eyes of
the President, should I have the good fortune to meet him, I set off
on Fatima's back, following the straight road, as Bandy Jim had
directed.

A more forlorn village it has rarely been my lot to see: stretches of
mud road with neither houses nor fields to outline it, and then for a
block or more bare and ugly houses, hideous in their newness, not
having even the grace of age to soften their ill proportions. I was
glad mademoiselle was not there to gaze upon the capital of America
with eyes that knew so well how to be scornful, and that would so soon
find her own gay French capital so beautiful.

I was in the very act of saying to myself for the twentieth time,
"Idiots and dolts, not to have selected beautiful Philadelphia for a
nation's capital!" when there rode up beside me a farmer in plain,
almost rough, clothes, but riding a magnificent horse. He was about to
pass me (for I was riding slowly, out of respect to the mud, which
might easily have bespattered me so that I would be in no condition
for a call), but I hailed him:

"Are you going my way, my friend?"

"If you are going mine."

"I am going straight ahead to the President's Palace."

"And I to the White House, sir."

"Then our ways lie together. Are you acquainted in Washington?"

"Somewhat, sir."

I began to think this rather a surly farmer, he was so chary of words,
so I looked at him more narrowly. But I saw nothing surly in his face.
Indeed, at a second glance, I decided it was as fine a face, its
features as clearly chiseled, as one often sees, and the eyes, beneath
the broad white brow, were full, open, and benignant.

"He is no ordinary farmer," I said to myself, "but most like a wealthy
Virginia planter of education and social standing, but careless in
matters of dress." Therefore I addressed him with a shade more of
respect than I had hitherto used:

"I am a stranger in Washington, sir," I said, "and if you are better
acquainted here, I thought perhaps you would be so good as to tell me
something of the city."

He unbent immediately, and not only pointed out every object of
interest on the road, but in a very delicate and gentlemanly manner
proceeded also to pump me as to my name and errand in Washington. I
was not more amused at his curiosity than at the skilful method he
employed in trying to satisfy it, but, as I flattered myself, I gave
him but little satisfaction.

In reply to some question of mine about the debate in Congress on the
Mississippi question, he gave me such a masterly exposition of the
whole subject, so clearly and concisely put into a nutshell, I began
to think my eccentric planter was a political genius, possibly a
member of Congress, though if so I thought his horse was headed the
wrong way.

But evidently I had lighted unwittingly upon a rich mine of
information. It was never my way to neglect my opportunities, and I
began at once to ply him with questions about men and things in
Washington. Last of all, I asked him about Mr. Jefferson.

Now my family was not of Mr. Jefferson's party: we were ardent
admirers and strong partizans of Mr. Hamilton. Not that we had any
fault to find with Mr. Jefferson, except for his quarrel with
Hamilton. But bethinking me that it was quite possible my planter
might be a "Democrat," as Mr. Jefferson calls his party, I spoke
guardedly, I thought.

"Can you tell me something of the President, sir? Do you admire him?
And is it true he is such a sloven in dress as they say he is?"

I could not tell from his face whether he were Democrat or Whig, for
it changed not a whit. He answered readily:

"I know Mr. Jefferson quite well. I can hardly say whether I admire
him or not, but I like him. In fact, he is quite a friend of mine. As
to his being a sloven in dress, is that what they say about him? He
dresses as well as I do: would you call that being a sloven?"

"Not at all, sir, not at all!" I answered quickly; but to myself I
said, "If he dresses no better, God help us!" I added aloud:

"I hope, sir, what I have said about the President has not offended
you, since he is a friend of yours. I have never seen him, and was
only repeating the general report."

The stream of people that had been setting eastward earlier in the
morning had ceased entirely. We had ridden on some distance without
meeting any one, but at this moment we met two gentlemen on horseback,
and both took off their hats and kept them off until we had passed. I
thought it probable that from my fine clothes (which, though plain,
were of undeniable elegance) they took me for a stranger of
distinction, and I bowed most graciously in return. My farmer friend
but touched his hat with his riding-whip, and then pointed off through
the woods to where we could see the chimneys of a large house, on the
banks of the river.

"That," he said, "is Mr. Law's mansion. You may have heard of him?"

"Oh, yes," I answered; "he married Miss Custis, and I used to know her
quite well, when we were both children."

We mounted a little elevation in the road, not enough to be called a
hill, but enough to give a more extended view over the wide acres of
brick-kilns and huts of laborers and dismal waste land unfenced and
uncultivated. To the east, in the direction of the Capitol, he pointed
out the towers of Doddington Manor, the house of Daniel Carroll. We
had passed so many houses that seemed to me but little more than
hovels or barracks that it was a relief to me to see from Mr. Law's
and Mr. Carroll's places that there were some gentlemen's residences
in the capital. When I said something of the kind to my guide, he
replied, with some asperity, that there were many gentlemen's
residences at Alexandria and Arlington and Georgetown, only a short
gallop away, and that it would not be many years until Washington
itself could claim as many as New York or Philadelphia.

I saw he was one of those violent partizans of the "ten-mile square"
(probably because his farm lay somewhere near), so discreetly turned
the discourse, since I did not want to bring up the vexed question of
the superior merits of New York, Philadelphia, and the ten-mile square
as a seat for the capital.

By this time the President's Palace was in full view, and a beautiful
building it was, looking very large and very white, and, it must be
confessed, very bare, since there were no gardens surrounding it,
nothing but mud in front and marsh behind, between it and the Potomac.

Fatima picked her way daintily through the mud, often half stopping
for better footing (as if she knew she must not bespatter me when I
was going to call at the President's house), and by that means the
farmer's powerful horse (who seemed not to mind the mud, knowing there
was no finery to be hurt by it) got well ahead. I was myself so much
engaged with the badness of the road that I did not, for a few
minutes, look up. When I did, I observed that two orderlies were
holding the farmer's horse, from which he had just dismounted, while
the farmer himself stood on the steps awaiting my approach. One
orderly led his horse away as I rode up, but the exclamation of
disgust for the mud that rose to my lips never passed them. As I
glanced up at this "farmer" in corduroy small-clothes, red plush
waistcoat, rough riding-boots splashed with mud, he had suddenly grown
tall and majestic.

"Orderly, take this gentleman's horse to the stable!" he said, with an
air of command, and then turned to me with stately dignity.

"Welcome to the White House, my young Philadelphia friend," he said,
and smiled.

For my confusion knew no bounds. I was never quick where a puzzle or
trick was concerned, but now it slowly dawned upon me that my farmer
friend was the President of the United States! and I had been
criticizing him to his face, and talking flippantly to him, and even
superciliously. My consternation grew; I knew not what was the proper
thing to do, but I stammered out the most abject apology I could think
of.

Mr. Jefferson only laughed at my confusion.

"Come, come, sir," he said genially, "there is no great harm done.
Don't you suppose I know what people say of me? You were only
repeating the 'general report,' you know." And then he added
seriously, as he saw my confusion was but increased by his raillery:

"Where no offense is intended, sir, none is taken. I beg you will
enter the White House, and I will send my secretary to you, Mr.
Meriwether Lewis."

As he spoke he led the way into the house and into a very large and
beautiful room, with a full-length portrait of General Washington on
the walls.

"I shall hope to see you later," he said pleasantly as he left me; "if
I mistake not, I have some communications of interest for you." Then
he turned and went up the grand staircase and left me alone to my
miserable pastime of recalling every word and every incident of that
wretched ride to the White House, and from not one of them could I
extract an atom of comfort to soothe my wounded self-esteem.




CHAPTER XVII

A GREAT DEBATE

    They "of the western dome, whose weighty sense
    Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence."


I had been so abashed by my wretched mistake that I had not so much as
told the President who I was (though, truth to tell, he had not asked
me, and it would have been only another impertinence on my part to
have volunteered the information). Yet as I sat waiting for young Mr.
Lewis, and reviewing in my mind the miserable events through which I
had just passed, it suddenly occurred to me as very remarkable that
Mr. Jefferson should have known I was from Philadelphia, when I
thought I had been so particularly skilful in betraying no fact
concerning myself. Moreover, he had not only guessed I was from
Philadelphia; he must have guessed my identity also, for he had
"communications of interest" for me.

My curiosity was now so thoroughly aroused, both as to how the
President knew me and what his communications might be, that it began
to efface the keenness of my mortification. In the midst of my
wondering surmises, Mr. Lewis appeared and greeted me most affably;
and when I had presented Captain Clarke's letter of introduction, he
was, if possible, more affable still. He was an older-looking man than
I had expected to see, and with so much of seriousness in his
countenance, and yet of such frankness and earnestness in his manner,
that it drew my interest and liking at once.

He was the bearer of a very polite message from the President,
inviting me to dinner at the White House at four o'clock that
afternoon; and then he proposed that we should set out at once for the
Capitol, where, as he said, a debate of special interest was on the
calendar.

I was much touched at the generosity of Mr. Jefferson in returning my
discourtesy to himself by so courteously placing his secretary at my
disposal for my entertainment, and nothing could have pleased me
better than Mr. Lewis's proposal. It had been my intention to visit
the Capitol as soon as this visit of ceremony should be performed, but
to visit it with a guide so much at home as the President's secretary
was good luck indeed.

I thought it still better luck when I found that, by Mr. Jefferson's
special invitation, we were to sit in a small gallery set aside for
the President and his friends, and to which a guard in uniform
admitted us with a key. I was much impressed by the exterior of the
Capitol (though in such an unfinished state), but when I found myself
seated in the seclusion of the President's own private gallery,
looking down upon the horseshoe of grave and distinguished senators, I
could have wished that one of the ladies (of whom there were a number
in the gallery opposite, and who cast many inquisitive glances at the
two young men in the President's box) might have been Mademoiselle
Pelagie, for I felt sure she would never again think of me as a boy,
could she but see me in my present dignified surroundings.

But it was only for a moment that my attention was distracted by the
ladies and by thoughts of mademoiselle. A gentleman was speaking (Mr.
Lewis told me it was Mr. Ross of Pennsylvania) in a most impassioned
manner, and the magic word "Mississippi" caught my ear and charmed my
attention. Mr. Ross was saying:

"To the free navigation of the Mississippi we have undoubted right,
from nature and also from the position of our Western country. This
right and the right of deposit in the Island of New Orleans were
solemnly acknowledged and fixed by treaty in 1795. That treaty has
been in actual operation and execution for many years, and now,
without any pretense of abuse or violation on our part, the officers
of the Spanish government deny that right, refuse the place of
deposit, and add the most offensive of all insults by forbidding us
from landing on any part of their territory and shutting us out as a
common nuisance. I declare it, therefore, to be my firm and mature
opinion that so important a right will never be secure while the mouth
of the Mississippi is exclusively in the hands of the Spanish. From
the very position of our country, from its geographical shape, from
motives of complete independence, the command of the navigation of
the river ought to be in our hands.

"We are now wantonly provoked to take it. Hostility in its most
offensive shape has been offered us, and hostility fatal to the
happiness of the Western World. Why not seize, then, what is so
essential to us as a nation? Why not expel the wrong-doers? Paper
treaties have proved too feeble. Plant yourselves on the river;
fortify the banks; invite those who have an interest at stake to
defend it. Do justice to yourselves when your adversaries deny it, and
leave the event to Him who controls the fate of nations!"

Ah, how his words burnt my brain! I was for leaving Mr. Lewis in the
President's gallery, running down to the great entrance where I had
left Fatima in charge of a negro boy, mounting her, and riding
straight back to Kentucky. Once there, I was sure it would be an easy
matter to raise a company of eager patriots and march at their head
down the Great River to the hostile city. But Mr. Ross had not
finished, and I could not lose a word of his impassioned speech:

"Why submit to a tardy and uncertain negotiation--a negotiation with
those who have wronged you? When in possession you will negotiate with
more advantage. You will then be in the position to keep others out.
The present possessors have no pretense to complain, for they have no
right to the country, by their own confession.

"The Western people will discover that you are making every effort
they could desire for their protection. They will ardently support you
in the contest, if a contest becomes necessary. Their all will be at
stake, and neither their zeal nor their courage need be doubted.

"But after negotiations shall have failed; after a powerful, ambitious
nation shall have taken possession of the key of their Western country
and fortified it; after the garrisons are filled by the veterans who
have conquered the East: will you have it in your power to waken the
generous spirit of the West and dispossess them? No, no; their
confidence in you as their rulers will be gone; they will be
disheartened, divided, and will place no further dependence upon you."

At this moment two officers in uniform entered the Senate, preceding a
gentleman who carried on a cushion a document. Immediately the
President of the Senate, Mr. Burr (a man whom I had been reared to
dislike and distrust above all men, and whose enmity for Mr. Hamilton
was sufficient cause to make me his foe, yet whose attractive
personality, seeing him for the first time, I could not deny), called
the house to order, and requested Mr. Ross to defer the completion of
his speech until a message from the House of Representatives should
have been read.

I was all curiosity, for it seemed to me an imposing ceremony and one
that must be of great moment. But I was doomed to disappointment. The
gentleman bearing the document said something in a low tone to the
clerk, who repeated it to Mr. Burr. Whereupon Mr. Burr rose in his
seat.

"Gentlemen of the Senate," he said, "the House of Representatives
sends you a confidential message. Sergeant-at-arms, clear the house!"

Mr. Lewis rose at once, and signaled to me to follow, which I did,
very unwillingly. Outside in the corridors he said:

"I think this will be but a brief secret conference--most like we can
return in a few minutes; and I will employ the interim in showing you
the building."

From his manner I thought he must know the subject of the secret
conference, as, indeed, being the President's private secretary, he
would have every means of knowing. But he gave me no hint of it, and
it was not until long afterward that I learned that in the half-hour
we were shut out the Senate had confirmed the House bill to place two
million dollars at the President's disposal to commence with more
effect a negotiation with France and Spain for the purchase of the
Isle of New Orleans and the East and West Floridas.

When the doors were opened again, and we were back in our seats in the
President's gallery, we found Mr. Ross already on his feet, continuing
his interrupted speech, and evidently the sentences I first heard were
in reference to the bill just passed.

"I know," he said, "that some gentlemen think there is a mode of
accomplishing our object, of which, by a most extraordinary procedure,
I am forbidden to speak on this occasion. I will not, therefore, touch
it. But I will ask honorable gentlemen, especially those from the
Western country, what they will say, on their return home, to a people
pressed by the heavy hand of this calamity, when they inquire: What
has been done? What are our hopes? How long will this obstruction
continue? You answer: We have provided a remedy, but it is a secret!
We are not allowed to speak of it there, much less here. It was only
communicated to us confidentially, in whispers, with closed doors. But
by and by you will see it operate like enchantment. It is a sovereign
balsam which will heal your wounded honor; it is a potent spell, or a
kind of patent medicine, which will extinguish and forever put at rest
the devouring spirit which has desolated so many nations of Europe.
You never can know exactly what it is; nor can we tell you precisely
the time it will begin to operate: but operate it certainly will, and
effectually, too! You will see strange things by and by; wait
patiently, and place full faith in us, for we cannot be mistaken!

"This idle tale may amuse children, but the men of the West will not
be satisfied. They will tell you that they expected better things of
you, that their confidence has been misplaced, and that they will not
wait the operation of your newly invented drug; they will go and
redress themselves!"

Then Mr. Ross proceeded to read a series of resolutions he had drawn
up, the most important part of them being to authorize the President
to take immediate possession of the Isle of New Orleans, and to raise
a militia army not exceeding fifty thousand men in the Western States,
to cooperate with the army and navy of the Union; and that the sum of
five millions of dollars should be appropriated to carry out these
resolutions.

They took my breath away. "What would I not give to be back in
Kentucky!" I whispered to Mr. Lewis, in irrepressible excitement.

"Calm yourself, my young friend," he whispered back. "War is not
declared yet. Listen to this next speech; it is Mr. White from
Delaware. See whether he supports or opposes the resolutions."

His opening sentence answered the question:

"As to the closing of the port of New Orleans against our citizens,
the man who can now doubt that it was a deliberate act of the Spanish
or French government must have locked up his mind against truth and
conviction, and be determined to discredit even the evidence of his
own senses. But, sir, it is not only the depriving us of our right of
deposit by which we have been grieved: it is by a system of measures
pursued antecedent and subsequent to that event, equally hostile and
even more insulting. I have in my hand a paper signed by a Spanish
officer, which, with the indulgence of the chair, I will read to the
Senate."

Then he read a paper signed by Carlos de Grandpré, warning the
subjects of his Majesty of Spain that they were to have no
communications with America, and couched in the most insulting terms.
My blood boiled as I listened!

"These," said Mr. White, "are the measures that have been adopted by
the Spaniard, excluding us from their shores for a distance of two
hundred and seventy miles, treating us like a nation of pirates and
banditti. Would the great Washington have permitted such an insult had
he still been with us? Spain has dared us to the trial, and now bids
us defiance. She is yet in possession of that country; it is at this
moment within your reach and within your power. It offers a sure and
easy conquest. We should have to encounter there only a weak,
inactive, and unenterprising people. But how may a few months vary the
scene and darken our prospects! Though not officially informed, we
know that the Spanish provinces on the Mississippi have been ceded to
the French, and that they will, as soon as possible, take possession
of them. What may we then expect? When, in the last extremity, we
shall be drawn to arms in defense of our indisputable rights, where
now slumbers on his post the sluggish Spaniard we shall be hailed by
the vigilant and alert French grenadier; and in the defenseless
garrison that would now surrender at our approach we shall see
unfurled the standards that have waved triumphant in Italy, surrounded
by impregnable ramparts and defended by the disciplined veterans of
Europe. I am willing to attribute to honorable gentlemen the best of
motives; I am sure they do not wish to involve this country in a
war--and, God knows, I deprecate its horrors as much as any man. But
this business can never be adjusted abroad; it will ultimately have to
be settled upon the banks of the Mississippi; the war is inevitable
unless honorable gentlemen opposed to us are prepared to yield up the
best interest and honor of the nation. I believe the only question now
in our power to decide is, whether it shall be the bloodless war of a
few months or the carnage of years.

"These observations are urged upon the supposition that it is in the
power of the government to restrain the impetuosity of the Western
people and to prevent their doing justice to themselves, which, by the
by, I beg to be understood as not believing. They know their own
strength; they know the feebleness of the enemy; they know the
infinite importance of the stake, and they feel--permit me to say,
sir, with more than mere sensibility--the insults and injuries they
have received. You had as well pretend to dam up the mouth of the
Mississippi, and say to its restless waves, 'Ye shall cease here and
never mingle with the ocean,' as to expect they will be prevented from
descending it.

"Without the free use of the river and the necessary advantage of
deposit below our line, their fertile country is not worth possession;
their produce must be wasted in the field or rot in the granary. These
are rights not only guaranteed to them by treaty, but also given to
them by the God of nature, and they will enforce them, with or without
the authority of government!"

This long speech (and I have not remembered half of it) was
interrupted by frequent bursts of applause, and when Mr. White sat
down, it was amid such enthusiasm of cheering as quite carried me off
my feet.

"Was there ever such a speech?" I shouted into Mr. Lewis's ear, for
the noise was deafening. "That will surely win the day."

"Wait," he shouted back, "until you hear the other side. That is Mr.
Jackson of Georgia trying to get the floor, and, if I mistake not, he
will be in opposition, and he is a strong speaker, with plenty of
caustic wit."

Mr. Jackson began to speak with so slow a drawl and in such low tones
that at first I hardly thought him an adversary to be dreaded. But as
he warmed to his work I changed my mind.

"What is the course," he began, "which we have to pursue? Is it to go
immediately to war without asking for redress? By the law of nations
and the doctrines of all writers on such law, you are not justified
until you have tried every possible method of obtaining redress in a
peaceable manner. It is only in the last extremity, when you have no
other expedient left, that a recourse to arms is lawful and just, and
I hope the United States will never forfeit their character for
justice by any hasty or rash steps which they may, too late, have to
repent of.

"Sir, we have been told much, by the gentleman from Delaware, of
Bonaparte: that he is the hero of France, the conqueror of Italy, the
tyrant of Germany, and that his legions are invincible. We have been
told that we must hasten to take possession of New Orleans whilst in
the hands of the sluggish Spaniards, and not wait until it is in the
iron grip of the Cæsar of modern times. But much as I respect the fame
and exploits of that extraordinary man, I believe we should have
little more to fear from him, should it be necessary in the end to
contend with him for the possession of New Orleans, than from the
sluggish Spaniards. Bonaparte, sir, in our Southern country would be
lost with all his martial talents. His hollow squares and horse
artillery would be of little service to him in the midst of our
morasses and woods, where he would meet, not with the champaign
country of Italy,--with the little rivulets commanded by his cannon
which he could pass at leisure,--not with the fortified cities which
command surrounding districts, but with rivers miles wide, and swamps
mortal or impenetrable to Europeans. With a body of only ten thousand
of our expert riflemen around him, his laurels would be torn from his
brow, and he would heartily wish himself once more on the plains of
Italy.

"The sacred name of Washington has been unnecessarily appealed to on
this as on many other occasions, and we have been boastingly told that
in his time no nation dared insult us. Much, sir, as I revere his
memory, acknowledging him among the fathers of his country, was this
the fact? Was he not insulted?--was not the nation insulted under his
administration? How came the posts to be detained after the definitive
treaty with Great Britain? What dictated that inhuman deed to stir up
horror and destruction among us--Lord Dorchester's insolent and savage
speech to the hordes of Indians on our frontiers to massacre our
inhabitants without distinction? Were those not insults? Or have we
tamely forgotten them? Yet, sir, did Washington go to war? He did not;
he preferred negotiation, and sent an envoy to Great Britain. Peace
was obtained by a treaty with that nation. Shall we, then, not
negotiate? Shall we not follow the leading feature of our nation's
policy? We are all actuated, I hope, by one view, but we differ in the
means. Let us show the nations of the earth we are not anxious for
war, that scourge of mankind; that we bear patiently our injuries, in
hope of redress.

"But, sir, if forced to war, contrary to our policy and wish, let us
unsheathe the sword and fling away the scabbard until our enemies be
brought to a sense of justice and our wrongs be redressed."

Now to every word of this speech I had listened breathlessly. There
was a ring in Mr. Jackson's voice as he warmed to his theme, and his
long body swayed in the power of his own eloquence, that moved me
mightily, though I wished not to be moved.

I scarcely listened to the gentleman that followed (a Mr. Cocke from
Tennessee), so intently was I reviewing Mr. Jackson's ringing
sentences, and wondering if, after all, he was right, and all the
brave Kentuckians who had been so loud in their demands for war were
wrong. But one or two sentences of Mr. Cocke caught my ear; I heard
him say:

"We were told by Mr. Ross that we were bound to go to war for this
right which God and nature had given to the Western people. What are
we to understand by this right given by God and nature? Surely not the
right of deposit, for that was given by treaty, and as to the right of
navigation, that has been neither suspended nor brought into question.
But we are told by the same gentleman that the possession of New
Orleans is necessary to our complete security. Leaving to the
gentleman's own conscience to settle the question as to the morality
of taking that place because it would be convenient, I beg to inform
him that the possession of it would not give us complete security."

What further Mr. Cocke said I do not know, for at that moment Mr.
Lewis whispered to me:

"Do you know the lady in the gallery opposite? She has been for some
time covertly regarding one of us, and I think it must be you. Do not
look at her just now; look at the right-hand gallery, and then
gradually let your glance come around to the lady wearing a black lace
veil beside the pillar in the front row opposite."

I did as Mr. Lewis instructed--letting my glance finally fall in the
most casual manner where he indicated. But as I did so my heart gave a
great bound. Could that be Mademoiselle Pelagie? The pose of the head,
the dark eyes seen dimly through the lace veil, the little ringlets in
the neck, were hers; but after a moment I convinced myself that it was
only a chance resemblance. I had left Mademoiselle Pelagie in Kentucky
not three weeks before, with no intention of coming to Washington, but
of going direct to New York as soon as suitable escort could be found.
It would hardly be within the bounds of possibility that she should be
in Washington as soon as I. It was true I had been detained somewhat
on the route, once by losing my way, and once by Fatima laming her
foot and causing me to spend two days with a Virginia planter while
she recovered sufficiently to permit our resuming our journey. But
still I could not believe mademoiselle could have accomplished such a
journey so quickly, and when I had left her there had been a small
prospect of an escort to New York, but none at all to Washington.

So I told Mr. Meriwether Lewis that the lady did indeed remind me of
one I knew, but as she was at that moment (I had every reason to
believe) safe with Mrs. O'Fallon at Mulberry Hill, it was impossible
that it could be she. Then, though much disturbed by this chance
resemblance and the thronging memories it awakened, I addressed myself
once more to the debate.

I was just in time to see rising to his feet the handsomest man in the
Senate, as I had long before decided. Mr. Gouverneur Morris, with his
clean-cut, aristocratic features, his carefully curled peruke, his
fine lace ruffles falling over his long white hands, and his
immaculate stockings and pumps with their glittering buckles, was, to
my mind, every inch the gentleman, and quite worthy to have called
himself a blue-blooded Philadelphian, but that an unkind fate had
given him New York for a birthplace. I was more than curious to know
on which side he would be, and his opening sentence filled me with the
assurance he was on the right side and every word was weighted.
Clear-cut, each sentence dropped from his lips like a string of
burnished jewels.

"Had Spain the right to make this cession to France without our
consent? Gentlemen have taken it for granted that she had. But I deny
the position. No nation has a right to give to another a dangerous
neighbor without her consent. He who renders me insecure, he who
hazards my peace and exposes me to imminent danger, commits an act of
hostility against me and gives me the rights consequent on that act.
Suppose Great Britain should give to Algiers one of the Bahamas, and
contribute thereby to establish a nest of pirates near your coast.
Would you not consider it as an aggression? It is among the first
limitations to the exercise of the rights of property that we must so
use our own as not to injure another, and it is under the immediate
sense of this restriction that nations are bound to act toward each
other.

"The possession of Louisiana by the ambitious ruler of France would
give him in the New World the preponderance he has already obtained in
the Old. It becomes the United States to show that they do not fear
him who is the ruler of all; and it specially behooves the young and
growing republic to interpose, in order to revive the energy and
resistance of the half-conquered nations of Europe, and to save the
expiring liberties of mankind!"

No one can imagine the fire, the grace, the inspiring tones and
gestures, with which this last sentence was uttered. In my enthusiasm
I looked across to my fair neighbor in the opposite gallery for
sympathy. Through the veil I thought I caught her eye; but by the
slightest turn of her head and an almost imperceptible movement of her
hand she conveyed to me (whether intentionally or not, I was not sure)
that she was not at all in sympathy with the speaker--indeed, that she
disagreed with him wholly.

I looked down again into the arena below me. Slowly rising from his
seat was a figure as ungainly as the other had been elegant. Red of
face, with features almost coarse, and unwieldy from too great a
burden of flesh, I recognized at once Mr. Morris's colleague, the
famous Mr. Clinton of New York. What he said pleased me no more than
his appearance, yet I could but own that no speaker had spoken with
more force, more caustic satire, or more fluent eloquence. I had to
admit, also, that there was a flavor of good sense and practicability
about much that he said, though I was loath to admit it. He began
ponderously, with pompous tones; but as he went on his voice changed
until it became at times high and even rasping.

"Sublime, sir, as these speculations may appear to the eyes of some,
and high-sounding as they may strike the ears of many, they do not
affect me with any force. In the first place, I do not perceive how
they bear upon the question before me; it merely refers to the seizure
of New Orleans, not to the maintenance of the balance of power. Again,
of all characters, I think that of a conquering nation least becomes
the American people. What, sir! Shall America go forth, like another
Don Quixote, to relieve distressed nations and to rescue from the
fangs of tyranny the powerful states of Britain, Spain, Austria,
Italy, the Netherlands? Shall she, like another Phaëthon, madly ascend
the chariot of Empire, and spread desolation and horror over the
world? Shall she attempt to restrain the career of a nation, which my
honorable colleague represents to have been irresistible, and which he
declares has appalled the British lion and the imperial eagle of the
house of Austria? Shall we wantonly court destruction and violate all
the maxims of policy which ought to govern infant and free republics?
Let us, sir, never carry our arms into the territory of other nations,
unless we are compelled to take them up in self-defense. A pacific
character is of all others most important for us to maintain. With a
sea-coast of two thousand miles, indented with harbors and lined with
cities, with an extended commerce, and with a population of only six
millions, how are we to set up for the avenger of nations? Can gravity
itself refrain itself from laughter at the figure which my honorable
colleague would wish us to make on the theater of the world? He would
put a fool's cap on our head and dress us up in the parti-colored
robes of a harlequin for the nations of the world to laugh at. And
after all the puissant knights of the times have been worsted in the
tournament by the Orlando Furioso of France, we must then, forsooth,
come forward and console them for their defeat by an exhibition of our
follies!

"I look, sir, upon all the dangers we heard about the French
possession of Louisiana as visionary and idle. Twenty years must roll
over our heads before France can establish in that country a
population of two hundred thousand souls. What, in the meantime, will
become of your Southern and Western States? Are they not advancing to
greatness with a giant's stride? The Western States will then contain
on their borders millions of free and hardy republicans, able to crush
every daring invader of their rights!"

There was a slight stir in the gallery opposite. I looked up to see
the figure in black rising from her seat. But even as I looked I
thought I caught a direct glance from the dark eyes, and I could
almost have sworn there was a slight wave of the hand as if in parting
salute to me. Her companion, an older lady, rose with her, and
together they turned and left the gallery. Once more I was struck by
the startling resemblance to Mademoiselle Pelagie in every movement,
and in the outlines of the graceful figure. I heard nothing more Mr.
Clinton had to say; I was lost in an abstracted reverie as to the
possibility of its being mademoiselle in the flesh. I would have liked
to propose to Mr. Lewis that we go out and follow the mysterious
figure, but cold reason assured me that mademoiselle was many miles
away, and it was but a fond fancy that pictured her image in every
dark-eyed maiden, and so shamed me from such a foolish pursuit.

"Shall we go?" said Mr. Lewis. "There will be no vote--probably none
for a week at least."

I started from my reverie to find the debate over, the Senate
adjourned, floor and gallery rapidly clearing. I answered with
alacrity, hoping he had not discovered my abstraction:

"By all means. It has been a grand occasion, and I am much indebted to
you, sir, for giving me the opportunity of hearing so great a debate."

Through the long corridors I hurried Mr. Lewis, eagerly scanning the
throng for a glimpse of that figure, which I hoped we might overtake;
but it had utterly vanished. Outside we found our horses waiting, and
together we picked a rough and broken path down Capitol Hill, and
then a smoother road where we could put our horses to a canter up the
avenue; a gay throng in coaches, in saddle, and on foot accompanying
us, and Mr. Meriwether Lewis saluting to right and left as we passed
the more leisurely ones, or were passed by those riding or driving in
reckless haste. And so on to my inn, where Bandy Jim, still
industriously polishing boots on the sidewalk, ducked his white head
with a joyous "Howdy, marsa!" and I felt as if an old friend was
welcoming me home.




CHAPTER XVIII

A MAGIC COACH

    "And we meet with champagne and a chicken."


I had made my toilet with such despatch that scarcely an hour after
parting with Mr. Lewis at my inn I found myself once more at the White
House. This time I was ushered up-stairs into an oval room, very
gorgeously furnished in crimson, where the President was waiting, and
a few of his guests. Beside him stood Mistress Madison, helping him to
receive; for his daughters were both away at their homes. I improved
the moment when she was speaking to some guests, who had arrived just
before me, to look at her well. I had heard much of her, and I knew my
sisters at home would want me to tell them exactly how she looked and
what she wore.

I think I have often seen more beautiful women (a dark-eyed maiden
from France was in my mind at the moment as far more beautiful), but
rarely have I seen a face lighted up with more of animation and good
humor. On her head she wore an article of dress which I had heard
described as worn by the ladies of London and Paris, but which I had
never before seen; for the head-dresses of the Frenchwomen in St.
Louis, while in some respects quite as remarkable, bore not the
slightest resemblance to this of Mistress Madison's. It was a Turkish
turban of white satin and velvet, with a jeweled crescent in front
clasping a bunch of nodding white ostrich-plumes. Her gown, of pale
pink satin, was heavily trimmed with ermine, and she wore gold chains
about her waist and wrists, and carried a jeweled snuff-box in her
hand. She was truly regal-looking, and I did not wonder that people
sometimes laughingly spoke of her as "her Majesty." Her turban
especially, I think, gave her an indescribable air of distinction; but
I was not quite sure that I thought it as becoming as the dark curling
locks of the very beautiful lady who stood beside her.

Mr. Lewis, at this moment descrying me, came forward to present me to
the President and to Mistress Madison, who put me at my ease at once
by inquiring for my mother and for many of my Philadelphia kin, who,
she declared, were old and very dear friends. I would have liked to
linger at her side, for she made me much at home, and I liked not to
turn away and find myself among a roomful of strangers; but I knew
there were others waiting to be received by her, and I must move on.

As I turned from her, a voice in my ear said imperiously:

"Well, sir, and have you no word for your old friend, Fanny
Cadwalader?"

I turned quickly; it was the beautiful lady with the dark curls.

"Miss Fanny!" I cried in joyous recognition, and bent low over her
extended hand.

I had been but a young boy when Frances Cadwalader married Mr. Erskine
and went to London to live; but we had been great friends as children,
and I did not understand how I had failed to recognize her. She bade
me stand beside her and she would point out all the distinguished
guests, and I was glad indeed of her protection. In reply to my eager
question as to how she came to be in Washington, she told me that her
husband had been appointed minister from Great Britain in Mr. Merry's
place, and they were but newly arrived.

"But where have you been living, sir," she asked, with mock severity,
"that you know nothing of what has been going on in the great world?
Or are we personages of so small importance that our movements are not
chronicled in America?"

I had to explain that I had been in the backwoods for months, and for
the last two months in the foreign colony of Louisiana, in the village
of St. Louis, where little of the doings of the outside world
penetrated.

She forgave me my ignorance, and immediately pointed out to me her
husband, a fine-looking Englishman, talking to the most gorgeously
arrayed creature I had ever beheld: satin, laces, velvets, jewels,
gold lace, and powder made up a dazzling ensemble.

"That," said she, "is the Marquis de Casa Yrujo, and the lady with him
is his wife, Sally McKean. He is magnificent, is he not? I would not
quite like it if I were the marchioness, for people look at him
instead of her, and she is quite beautiful enough to be looked at
herself."

"Ah, why begrudge the marquis his meed of admiration, if he likes it?"
I said. "And since he likes it, let us be grateful, for his sake, that
it is not Mistress Erskine who is the marchioness, for who can see the
glitter of the stars when the lovely moon is in the sky?"

She laughed good-naturedly at my gallantry, but I think she also liked
it. We were standing near a window that looked out on the front
approach to the White House. Suddenly Mistress Erskine exclaimed:

"Look, look quick, my friend! Here is magnificence indeed!"

I looked as she bade me, and saw what I conceived to be a rolling ball
of burnished gold borne swiftly through the air by two gilt wings. As
it came nearer we both grew more excited--I because I did not know
what it was (and it looked more like a fairy coach than anything I had
dreamed of), and she both because she enjoyed my bewilderment and
because she loved magnificence. By this time as many of the other
guests as were near windows and could look out without seeming to be
over-eager, or discourteous to their host, were doing so. The rolling
golden ball came to the very foot of the White House steps and
stopped. What I had taken to be two gilt wings proved to be nothing
more than gorgeous footmen, with _chapeaux bras_, gilt-braided skirts,
and splendid swords. They sprang to the ground, opened the door of the
coach, and from it alighted the French minister, weighted with gold
lace and glittering with diamonds and jeweled orders. He turned with
stately ceremony to offer his hand to a lady who was alighting from
the coach. First a tiny foot in high-arched slippers and embroidered
stocking; then a glimpse of a skirt, pale pink and silver brocade,
that had a strangely familiar air. I looked quickly at the head just
emerging--waving black curls, dark glowing eyes, a complexion of ivory
tinted with rose.

It was Mademoiselle Pelagie!

My head swam. Was it indeed all a bit of enchantment? The golden
coach, the gorgeous footmen, the dazzling minister of France,
and--Pelagie! Mrs. Erskine noted my agitation.

"Qu'as-tu, m'ami?" she said softly. "You know her, then?"

"Know whom, madam?" I asked, trying to get myself under control and
seem indifferent.

"Our new sensation, the Great Lady of France, whom all the town is
talking of. She arrived two days ago at the house of the French
minister, and is staying there, it is said, under his protection,
until she shall find suitable escort to Paris, where she goes to take
possession of her estates returned to her by Bonaparte. This is what
rumor says, and it looks as if it were true that she is a great lady,
since the minister has handed her from the carriage before his own
wife. We will wait now to see where the President seats her at table;
that will decide it."

I was trying hard to hold myself in hand and make suitable answer.

"Is the President such a stickler, then, for form and ceremony? We had
heard otherwise."

Mistress Erskine laughed:

"True, I forgot. If he had been as particular as he should concerning
precedence, I should not be here. You know, do you not, that my
husband's predecessor quarreled with President Jefferson because he
gave his arm to Dolly Madison, in going in to dinner, instead of to
the wife of the British minister?"

"Yes; I have heard of the 'Merry War,'" I answered, and stopped. Not
another word could I utter. Nor apparently could anybody else in the
room; for every voice was hushed as all eyes were turned to the door
where the French minister was entering with his wife on his left arm,
and what I veritably believed to be the most beautiful creature in the
world on his right.

It was a brilliant spectacle; for the French minister and his wife
dazzled the sight by the glitter of gold lace and the flash of jewels,
and Pelagie blinded the eyes as truly by a vision of radiant dark
eyes, soft black tresses curling around a white throat, the gleam of
snowy neck and rounded arms through rare lace, and the color of the
rose slowly tinting the rich ivory of her cheeks, as they passed
through a double lane of guests to speak to the President.

Now was I in two minds whether to be supremely happy in once more
beholding Mademoiselle Pelagie, whose graceful figure I thought had
forever faded from my sight when the boat rounded the bend of the
Ohio, or to be most miserable lest here among courtiers, and taking
her rightful place with the great of the earth, she should no longer
condescend to show me the friendliness she had shown on our last
evening on the river. Neither was I quite sure whether it was my place
to go forward and speak to her or to await her pleasure in speaking to
me.

But Mistress Erskine solved the problem.

"You do know her," she said--"I see it in your eyes; and you must
present me at once. And do tell me," she added eagerly: "is she so
great a lady? We have heard so many rumors about her; what is the
truth?"

"I have only known her," I answered, "as Mademoiselle Pelagie de Villa
Réal. I know that in France she is of high rank, but I do not know
what."

"Ah," she said, with a little gesture of disappointment, "then you
cannot introduce me properly, and I shall have to trust to that astute
diplomat that he gives her her right title. Does she know it herself?"

"I think she did not when she left St. Louis," I answered, "but her
new friends may have revealed it to her."

"On second thought," said she, "I believe I will ask you to present
her to me instead of the minister, if you will; I would like to see
how she takes the 'Mademoiselle de Villa Réal.'"

So there was nothing for it but to brace up my courage and go forward
to speak to mademoiselle. Nothing could have been sweeter and more
friendly than her greeting, and with no trace of embarrassment, though
I thought the French minister regarded me with a coldly critical eye.
Beside his magnificence I did feel rather shabby; for, though Yorke
had done his best to freshen and restore my purple velvets by steaming
and other appliances, they still were the worse for much service
(especially the encounter with the chevalier), and for many packings
in saddle-bags. Of my lace ruffles I was justly proud, for no
courtier's in the room were finer or richer, and my sword and scabbard
were not to be ashamed of, for though not so bejeweled as some, they
were of the finest workmanship and inlaid with gold and pearl.

Mademoiselle presented me to the French minister very prettily,
however; and though I thought his greeting somewhat scant in courtesy,
I attributed it to the suspicions he would naturally have, as
mademoiselle's guardian, of a young gentleman of whom he knew nothing,
and whom mademoiselle received so kindly.

I at once preferred Mistress Erskine's request, but the minister gave
Pelagie no chance to reply.

"I will myself present the comtesse to the wife of the British
ambassador," he said with alacrity, and led her away to Mistress
Erskine.

I saw that he had availed himself of this opportunity to cut short my
interview with mademoiselle; but, not to be outdone in diplomacy, I
followed leisurely, and was in time to hear the minister say:

"It gives me pleasure to present to Madame Erskine the Comtesse de
Baloit." And I saw by the profound curtsy Mistress Erskine made (and
which mademoiselle returned very prettily, but with a touch of
condescension, I thought) that that name meant something more to her
than it did to me.

After the fashion of women, the two began at once a lively chatter in
French, and I saw myself like to be shut out in the cold, with no
further opportunity for converse with mademoiselle. But I would not
desert my post, hoping sooner or later to get my chance. And I was
rewarded; for in a few minutes Mistress Erskine was called to receive
another presentation. But as she turned away she whispered in my ear:

"Be careful how you behave, sir; she is of the blood royal!"

Blood royal or not, she would always be Mademoiselle Pelagie to me,
and I was not going to lose my opportunity.

"Tell me, Comtesse," I said, "how you came here. When I saw you last
you had no idea of coming to Washington."

She did not answer my question at once, but, glancing up at me from
under her long lashes in the most adorable fashion, she said softly:

"You used to call me Comtesse when you were angry. Are you angry now?"

"No, not when I was angry," I answered, "but when you were--were--"

"Proud and naughty and altogether disagreeable," she interposed
quickly; "and that was very often, was it not, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Comtesse."

"I am not either now, am I? Then why do you not call me
Mademoiselle?"

"No, indeed! You are"--I was going to say "adorable," but I finished
tamely--"neither. But you are really Comtesse, and it is proper I
should call you so." And before I was aware of what I was doing, I
fetched a great sigh from the bottom of my boots. She understood, and
looked up at me with a pathetic little smile that was sadder than my
sigh.

"I am sorry, too; I think I would rather be mademoiselle," she said.

"And of the blood royal!" I added severely, as if accusing her of a
crime.

She dropped her eyes.

"I cannot help it. I never knew till yesterday," meekly.

"And your guardian," I indicated the French minister with a slight nod
in his direction, "thinks it great presumption for a plain Yankee
gentleman to be talking on such familiar terms with a princess of the
blood, and is coming in a few minutes to put a stop to it."

She looked at the minister quickly with a haughty turn of the head and
a flashing glance, but in a moment she turned back to me with a smile
curling her scarlet lips and a humorous twinkle in her eye.

"He would never dare," she said. "He is a good Citizen of the
Republic."

"Nevertheless he will dare," I insisted. "I see it in his eye; so
first tell me quickly how you got here, and when and where you are
going."

"Your boat was hardly out of sight, Monsieur," she answered, "when
another came up the river direct from St. Louis with Monsieur and
Madame Cerré aboard. They brought letters from my guardian directing
me to go on with them to Washington (where they were going to
see the Spanish minister about some trouble they had had with
Americans--concerning peltries, I think, and land, perhaps), and they
would place me in the French minister's care. I did not expect to find
you here, for we were a whole day behind you; but we traveled
rapidly."

"And I was delayed," I said. "But when and how are you to get to
Paris? With the Livingstons?"

"No; Citizen Pichon says they sailed this week. But he tells me, what
is not generally known, that your government is about to send a
special envoy to France concerning New Orleans--a Monsieur Monroe; and
Monsieur Pichon has arranged that I shall go with him."

"Do you know when?" I asked hastily, for I saw the President moving
toward us with the Marquis de Casa Yrujo, and I was quite sure that
meant an end to all conversation.

"Not for several weeks, I believe; but I am not sure," she answered.

"Will the Comtesse de Baloit permit me to present the Marquis de Casa
Yrujo, who will take her out to dinner?" And the President was adding
a pretty little speech of compliment, in his gallant way, and the
marquis was bowing solemnly and profoundly, and the comtesse was
curtsying and smiling, and I was left entirely out in the cold. I was
rescued by Mistress Madison.

"I would like nothing better than to give you your old friend Mistress
Erskine to take out to dinner," she said, smiling. "It is forlorn for
a young man among so many grown-ups, and the only young maiden
snatched away from him. But the President is not going to blunder
twice in the same fashion, and will take Mistress Erskine himself. Now
I will give you your choice among the rest. Whom would you like to
take?"

"Ah, your Majesty," I answered quickly, hand on my heart and bowing
low, but smiling up at her,--for she was a woman into whose amiable,
cordial face no man could look without smiling,--"I suppose I dare not
lift my eyes as high as my heart would dictate, and since you are out
of the question, I care not whom you give me."

"Saucy boy!"--and she tapped me lightly with her snuff-box,--"I vow I
think you would be vastly more fun than the British minister, but my
country demands that I sacrifice myself. I will give you the
Marchioness de Casa Yrujo. If you do not know Sally McKean, she
certainly knew you when you were in petticoats."

So I found myself seated at table between the most brilliant woman
there and the most beautiful; for the Marchioness de Casa Yrujo was
universally conceded to be the one, and the Comtesse de Baloit was, in
my esteem at least, as certainly the other.

It was a long table, and bounteously furnished--lacking, perhaps, some
of the elegance of the Philadelphia tables I had been accustomed to,
but with a lavish prodigality native to the South. Two new guests had
arrived while I had been so engrossed in talking to the comtesse that
I had not observed their entrance, a gentleman and his wife. The lady
was amiable-looking, but of no great distinction of appearance. The
gentleman I thought I had seen before; his long, rather lean visage,
somber but dignified, looked familiar to me. When the marchioness told
me it was Mr. Monroe, I wondered that I had not recognized him at
once, for he was a familiar figure on our streets during the ten years
when Philadelphia was the capital. Moreover, I could have vowed he was
wearing the same sad-colored drab clothes he used to appear in then,
so entirely unchanged were both cut and color. I looked at him now
with great interest, for was he not to decide the fortunes of the
West?--in which I could have taken no greater interest had I been
Western-born. And, more than that, was he not appointed to what seemed
to me a mission of far greater importance, the conveying of
mademoiselle in safety to her home?

I could have wished Mistress Monroe was to accompany him, for she had
an air of motherly kindliness that I felt would be both protection and
comfort to Mademoiselle Pelagie; and aside from the fact that there
was something cold and austere in Mr. Monroe's face, I was
sufficiently imbued with Mr. Hamilton's ideas to feel no great
confidence in the man. (Wherein I have since thought I did Mr. Monroe
great injustice, since in every act of his life he has proved himself
a high-minded gentleman. But Mr. Hamilton's personal magnetism was so
great that it was quite impossible for us younger men at least, not to
feel that every one who differed with him must be, if not wholly
unprincipled, at least worthy of doubt and suspicion.)

It was a brilliant dinner-table, for the exciting debate at the
Capitol furnished a theme that loosed every tongue. Yet I could see
that the President, while he kept the ball rolling with a gaiety and
good humor that rather surprised me, was himself most guarded. Indeed,
many were restrained, no doubt, from saying quite what they thought by
the presence of the Spanish minister, who at that time was at the
height of his popularity--his course in the Louisiana affair, which
made him so many enemies, not having been taken until later.

Yet most of those present were more in sympathy with Clinton of New
York and Jackson of Georgia than with Ross of Pennsylvania and
Gouverneur Morris. When Mr. Erskine spoke of Gouverneur Morris's
speech as a masterly effort, the President, whom he addressed, replied
only by a smile so coldly polite that it was like a dash of cold
water, not only to the British minister, but to the whole table.

I was ever a blundering idiot, and knew not when to leave well enough
alone; neither had I ever the heart to see fellow-man discomfited
(especially if he were on my side of the question) without going at
once to his aid. So, forgetting that it was the powerful minister of a
great nation, who needed no help from a man entirely unknown in the
great world and of extreme youth, I plunged boldly in.

"I agree with you, sir, most heartily," I said. "In force and polish
and weight of argument it was beyond compare. But I expected nothing
less from Gouverneur Morris."

There was a dead silence around the table; even the British minister
had not the temerity to do more than bow his thanks in the face of
Jefferson's icy smile. I caught a glimpse of the marquis's profile; he
was frowning heavily. The French minister's face was a blank, and so
was Mr. Monroe's. Pelagie looked the picture of distress, and Mr.
Lewis made me a slight gesture which I took to mean, "Keep still."
Even Mistress Erskine looked embarrassed, and I could understand none
of it. But as I caught Mistress Madison's eye there was a twinkle of
humor in it, and she gave the slightest, very slightest nod in the
world toward the President.

Then at once it flashed upon me: Gouverneur Morris was bosom friend to
Mr. Hamilton, and this was no place to be lauding him to the skies.
Then was I seized with a rage against the restraints of society, that
would not permit me to fling defiance in the face of all these
grandees,--aye, and of the President himself--and declare my
allegiance to Hamilton and his friends. And mingled with my rage was
an intolerable sense of mortification that I had made such an arrant
fool of myself before all these older men and lovely women. But, with
a tact for which I can never be sufficiently grateful to her, Mistress
Madison turned at once to Pelagie.

"Comtesse," she said, "you are fresh from the colony of Louisiana, in
which we are all so deeply interested; tell us something about your
life in St. Louis, and how you found your Spanish rulers."

And mademoiselle, understanding, responded at once with glowing
descriptions of her happy life there, and the courtesy and polish of
the people, with many gay little touches of rude and funny experience.
Everybody thawed at once; for most of those present had been much in
Paris and could understand her French as easily as I. The President
became as genial as he had been icy, and he insisted on drawing me
also into the conversation (I think for the purpose of giving me an
opportunity of retrieving myself), in which I hope I bore my part
modestly; for I like not to seem either presumptuous or vainglorious,
though, because I am a blunderer, I no doubt seem sometimes to be
both.

The curtains had been drawn and the candles lighted when we sat down
to dinner, though the sun was still shining; but the short winter
afternoon had rapidly passed into evening, and then into dark night,
and we still lingered at the table. Talk had grown more and more
animated as the wine flowed more freely, and toasts were drunk and
bright speeches made in response. I had, as in duty bound, devoted
most of my attention to the marchioness, and the marquis had engrossed
Pelagie. Yet there had been chance for an occasional word with her. It
was when the marquis was rising to respond to a toast to his Most
Catholic Majesty of Spain, amid the ringing of glasses, that I turned
to mademoiselle.

"Would it be permitted an old friend to call at the house of the
French minister on the Comtesse de Baloit?"

"It would be unpardonable if he neglected to do so," she responded,
with a bright smile.

"Then to-morrow at two I hope to find you at home," I said, and then
added quickly--"unless you are going to the Senate again?"

She colored a little.

"Did you know me?"

But she would not let me answer her own question, for the marquis was
beginning to speak, and it behooved us to listen. In the midst of the
applause that followed his speech, I saw the President whisper
something to the black man who stood behind his chair and send him to
me. For a moment, when the messenger told me the President wished to
see me in his office after the others were gone, I thought I was to be
called to account for my malapropos speech, but I was relieved when he
added:

"The President hab a message from yo' home, sah."

And had it not been that I liked much feeling myself so near
mademoiselle, even if I had only an occasional word from her, I would
have been very impatient for dinner to be over, for a message from
home sent to the President, it seemed to me, must be of importance.

Dinner was over at last, and there was but little lingering afterward.
I had the pleasure of helping mademoiselle into her coach, though
Monsieur Pichon looked cold and the Marquis de Yrujo tried to
forestall me. But when she was shut up inside the golden ball, and
the great golden wings were once more perched on either side of it,
and it rolled away glittering and flashing in the light of the torches
as it had flashed and glittered in the rays of the sun five hours
before, I had a sinking of the heart such as I might have felt had she
been snatched away from my sight forever in the prophet's fiery
chariot bearing her to the skies.

Mr. Meriwether Lewis was waiting to conduct me to the President's
office, and he stayed and talked with me pleasantly until the
President arrived; laughing with me at my _faux pas_, but telling me I
had nothing to fear from the President's displeasure, as he was not
the man to harbor a grudge on so slight a matter, and he (though, to
be sure, he was a lifelong friend) had ever found him to be kind,
considerate, and genial.

And such I found him in our brief interview. He went directly to the
point with me, which always goes far toward winning my liking.

"I know your family," he said, "have ever been friends of Mr.
Hamilton, and so not particularly friendly to me in a political way;
but your father and I have been associated much in scientific
pursuits, and we have ever been congenial friends in our love of
botanical research. He has sent me many rare plants and seeds to
Monticello, and now he shows me the further courtesy of reposing a
confidence in me, and I hope you will express to him my appreciation,
which I will prove by reposing a like confidence in you. Your father
writes me that a letter has just been received from your uncle,
Monsieur Barbé Marbois, inviting you to spend some time with him in
Paris. He says that both he and your mother think it much to be
desired that you should improve this opportunity for completing your
education. He says, further, that a ship sails from New York early
next week, and requests me, if you should be in Washington when I
receive this letter, as he suspects, that I will instruct you to lose
no time in reaching home. Indeed, so urgent is he, and the time is so
short, I think, without doubt, you should set off by daybreak
to-morrow morning.

"Now, as I said before, I am going also to repose a confidence in you.
It is not generally known, nor do I wish it known for the present
(therefore I speak in confidence), that I have decided to send an
envoy extraordinaire to Paris for the purpose of discussing with the
French government the possibility of purchasing New Orleans. I
communicated this to the Senate to-day in secret session, and I now
communicate it to you, also in 'secret session'"--with a genial smile.

"I have asked Mr. Monroe to undertake this delicate mission, and he
has to-day consented, and is here arranging his plans and discussing
with me and with Mr. Madison the points involved. He will not be able
to set out for some weeks, but we hope now that he can sail by the
eighth of March, reaching Paris somewhere near the twelfth of April.
Mr. Livingston naturally knows nothing of this, and the favor I have
to ask of you is that, immediately upon your arrival in Paris, you
call upon him and deliver to him a note which I shall give you, and
also explain fully to him all that I have said to you, all that you
have heard at dinner this evening, and particularly repeat to him as
much as you can hold in memory of the debate you listened to in the
Senate to-day."

The President paused for a moment, and then, with a smile of rare
sweetness, he added:

"Is the ardent young friend of Hamilton willing to put the President
under such a load of obligations?"

For a moment I hardly knew what response to make. Not that I dreamed
of denying his request: I was only too proud and happy that he should
have made it. But that he should have reposed such a confidence in me,
when he knew me scarcely at all, seemed incomprehensible. I made but a
stammering reply.

"Your Excellency," I said, "I fear I have given you but a poor idea of
my discretion, but since you trust me in spite of my blunder, I am
very proud to be of service to you."

It took but a minute for the President to give me his note to Mr.
Livingston, and a few further instructions, and then he bade me
God-speed with a warmth and cordiality I had never expected and
certainly never deserved at his hands.

There was but little sleep for me that night. As Fatima clattered into
the stony courtyard of my inn, I called loudly for Bandy Jim; and when
the poor old man came stumbling out of some inner retreat, half
blinded with sleep, I begged him to look after Fatima himself, and see
that she was well rubbed down and ready for an early morning start,
and that I was called and breakfast ready by six.

In my own room I spent not much time in packing my saddle-bags, but it
took me a good half-hour to write a brief note to mademoiselle,
explaining why I was compelled to cancel my engagement with her for
the next day, and bidding her good-by in such fashion that, without
seeming presumptuous, she might read between the lines how much of my
heart I had put into it.

I had said nothing in my note about going to Paris. I very much
desired to keep that for a surprise when I might some day meet her
there. And, lest she should hear it from others, I wrote also a note
to Meriwether Lewis, asking him to say nothing about it to any one,
and to request the President to keep my secret for me.

Then, putting a bright new gold piece with the two notes to be
delivered by the trusty hands of Bandy Jim in the morning, I lay down
to get a brief sleep, if possible--but, sleeping or waking, to dream
of Paris and the Comtesse de Baloit.




CHAPTER XIX

CHECK TO THE ABBÉ!

    "When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war."


I had been in Paris three weeks, and they had been weeks of unalloyed
delight. The life and gaiety of the brilliant capital, the streets
lined with handsome houses and thronged with gay equipages, richly
dressed people, soldiers wearing the tricolored cockade, students,
artists, workmen, blanchisseuses, and nursery-maids in picturesque
costumes tending prettily dressed children, made a moving panorama I
never tired of. Even the great palaces and the wonderful works of art
scarcely interested me as did this shifting kaleidoscopic picture, and
I looked back at life in my native town on the banks of the Delaware
as belonging to another world, incomparably tame and dull by
comparison.

Every morning I accompanied my uncle, Monsieur Barbé Marbois, to the
Treasury office, and left him at the door, to roam around the streets
and watch the life of the town. I was at home again in time for midday
déjeuner, and then on Fatima's back (for I had brought Fatima with me;
no persuasion of friends could induce me to leave her behind, since
she had twice rescued mademoiselle and so become my most trusted
friend)--on Fatima's back I dashed out the Avenue to the beautiful
Wood of Boulogne, sometimes racing with the young bloods to whom my
uncle had introduced me, sometimes checking my horse to a gentle
canter beside a coachful of Faubourg St. Germain beauties, exchanging
merry compliments with the brilliant and witty mothers while I looked
at the pretty daughters, who, for aught I knew, were as stupid as
their mothers were brilliant, since they never opened their mouths.
And so back to my aunt's in time to make a careful toilet for the
four-o'clock dinner, when there were sure to be guests, more or less
distinguished, but always interesting.

I had delivered my message and my note from the President to Mr.
Livingston on the day of my arrival, and it seemed to me that it did
not please him overmuch that an envoy extraordinaire should be sent to
attend to his affairs; but he said nothing, and received me most
graciously, both as a messenger from the President and because I was
the son of his old friend.

Several times since my arrival at my uncle's house, both Mr.
Livingston and his son the colonel had been guests there, and always
the talk had turned on what most interested me, the purchase of New
Orleans and the Floridas. At one of these dinners, Monsieur
Talleyrand, the Minister of Foreign Relations, was also guest, and
while there was but little reference to Louisiana at table, I was,
with no intention on my part, a listener later to a most interesting
conversation between Monsieur Talleyrand and Mr. Livingston that was
no doubt intended to be strictly private.

Thinking that it was very likely the three gentlemen--- the Minister
of Foreign Relations, my uncle the Secretary of the Treasury, and the
United States minister--might have matters of importance to discuss
where my absence would be more desirable than my presence, I left the
salon immediately after dinner, and went out into the garden, taking
with me a Philadelphia paper that had arrived by that morning's
express and that I had not yet seen. I took my paper into the little
summer-house at the farther end of the garden, and was soon engrossed
reading the debates in Congress. I found there had been another of
great interest on the same Louisiana subject, and so deeply immersed
was I in my paper that I did not notice that any one had entered the
garden until the sound of voices quite close to me roused me. A small
table with several garden-chairs surrounding it stood under a
spreading horse-chestnut tree, and there we often took our morning
coffee, if the weather was fine, or smoked our evening cigars. At this
table Monsieur Talleyrand and Mr. Livingston had seated themselves,
and how long they had been talking I did not know, so absorbed was I
in my paper, when Mr. Livingston's voice, a little raised above its
usual even tenor, roused me.

I sprang to my feet, realizing that I must seem like an eavesdropper,
should any one discover me there, even though I had not heard a word.
Mr. Livingston was facing the door of the summer-house, and as he saw
me he nodded pleasantly to me to come forward.

"Here, Citizen Minister," he said to Mr. Talleyrand, "is a young man
whose father would like to train him for the profession of diplomacy.
Perhaps he could not begin his apprenticeship better than by being
present at our interview, and, if you have no objections, I will ask
him to remain. He can act as secretary and take notes for the future
reference of us both, if you like."

I rather thought Mr. Talleyrand did _not_ quite like, though he
assented to Mr. Livingston's proposal, but with such cold politeness
as made me exceedingly uncomfortable, and I would have been very glad
to make my escape to the house. But, for some reason, Mr. Livingston
seemed to especially desire me to remain, and I saw no help for it but
to sit down at a respectful distance, take my memorandum-book out of
my pocket, and prepare, ostensibly at least, to take notes.

I was much concerned, also, at what Mr. Livingston had said about my
father desiring to train me for diplomacy. He had never said anything
to me about it, and I determined on the instant I would never be a
diplomat. "The life of a soldier for me!" I said to myself, and then
suddenly realized that Mr. Livingston was talking, and it behooved me
to listen carefully if I was to play the secretary.

Mr. Livingston was saying:

"Be assured, sir, that even were it possible that the government of
the United States could be insensible to the sufferings of the Western
people, they would find it as easy to prevent the Mississippi from
rolling its waters into the ocean as to control the impulse of the
people to do themselves justice. Sir, I will venture to say that were
a fleet to shut up the mouths of the Chesapeake, the Delaware, and the
Hudson, it would create less sensation in the United States than the
denial of the right of deposit at New Orleans has done."

I liked the ring in Mr. Livingston's voice, and his words sounded very
stirring to me; but I could not see that they made any impression on
the impassive countenance of Monsieur Talleyrand. He was reclining in
his garden-chair, and I could see that as Mr. Livingston spoke he was
regarding him intently through half-shut eyes. His tones were of the
sweetest and blandest as he replied:

"The First Consul, Mr. Livingston, has asked me to say to you that he
proposes to send General Bernadotte as envoy to the United States to
acquire such information as he may deem necessary, previous to his
taking any measure relative to the situation in which the acquisition
of Louisiana will place France with respect to the United States. I
hope, moreover, that this measure on the part of the First Consul will
prove satisfactory both to you and to your government."

Now I cannot but think that Mr. Talleyrand is too astute a man to have
thought for an instant that this would prove satisfactory, and so, I
have no doubt, he was quite prepared for Mr. Livingston's indignant
outburst:

"Satisfactory, sir! If, sir, the question related to the forming of a
new treaty, I should find no objection to this measure. On the
contrary, I should readily acquiesce in it as that which would be
best calculated to render the treaty mutually advantageous. But, sir,
it is not a new treaty for which we now press, but the recognition of
an old one, by which the United States have acquired rights that no
change in the circumstances of the country obliges them to relinquish,
and which they never will relinquish but with their political
existence!"

It was hard for me to sit still under such ringing sentences. I wanted
to clap my hands and cry "Bravo!" For a moment all the glories of
Paris turned dull and insipid; I would have given them all to be in
Kentucky on Fatima's back, marching down the river to capture New
Orleans.

But Mr. Livingston had not finished. Mr. Talleyrand made a slight
movement as if to speak, but, with uplifted hand to prevent him, Mr.
Livingston hurried on:

"In what situation, sir, are we now placed? An armament is about
sailing for New Orleans. That port has been shut by the order of
Spain. The French commandant will find it shut. Will he think himself
authorized to open it? If not, it must remain shut until the envoy of
France shall have arrived in America, made the necessary inquiries,
and transmitted the result of those inquiries to the First Consul. In
the meantime all the produce of five States is left to rot upon their
hands. There is only one season in which the navigation of the
Mississippi is practicable. This season must necessarily pass before
the envoy of France can arrive and make his report. Is it supposable,
sir, that the people of the United States will tranquilly await the
progress of negotiations, when the ruin of themselves and their
families will be attendant on the delay? I can never bring myself to
believe that the First Consul will, by deferring for a moment the
recognition of a right that admits of no discussion, break all those
ties which bind the United States to France, obliterate the sense of
past obligations, change every political relation that it has been,
and still is, the earnest wish of the United States to preserve, and
force them to connect their interests with a rival power! And this,
too, for an object of no real moment in itself. Louisiana is, and ever
must be, from physical causes, a miserable country in the hands of an
European power."

Mr. Talleyrand's eyes had not moved from Mr. Livingston's face during
this long speech, but at his last words I saw a sudden spark leap into
them.

"You no doubt think, sir," he said in his low, even tones, "that
Louisiana would be a much better country in the hands of the United
States. Would your government like to buy it from us?"

"You know, sir, and have known for some time," replied Mr. Livingston,
"that we are ready to make an offer for New Orleans and the Floridas
as soon as you are ready to listen to it."

"But would you not rather have the whole of Louisiana? The rest of it,
without New Orleans, would be of little value to us. What would you
give for the whole?"

Mr. Livingston looked bewildered for an instant; it was almost more
than he could take in at once. But after a moment's thought he
replied:

"It is a subject, sir, I have not considered; but I suppose we shall
not object to twenty million francs, provided our citizens are paid."

"That is much too low an offer, my dear sir," responded Talleyrand,
"but I see the idea is new to you. I would be glad if you would
reflect upon it, and tell me to-morrow the result of your
reflections."

"Mr. Monroe will be in town in a day or two." (My heart gave so great
a thump when Mr. Livingston said that, I feared they might hear
it--for would not the Comtesse de Baloit be with him?) "And I would
like to delay any further offer until I shall have the pleasure of
introducing him."

Mr. Talleyrand shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"As you will, Monsieur; but do not give Mr. Monroe reason to think
that I speak with authority. The idea struck me that you might like
the whole of the colony quite as well as part of it."

I thought this would have put an end to the conversation; but I soon
saw that Mr. Livingston had another card to play, and that he
evidently did not believe the minister was speaking entirely on his
own authority.

"Monsieur Talleyrand," he said, "I have this morning received a notice
from my home government that Mr. Ross's resolution authorizing the
President to seize New Orleans was lost by four votes. Another was
offered by Mr. Breckinridge of Kentucky, which was unanimously
adopted. Mr. Breckinridge's resolution was to the effect that the
President of the United States be authorized to require of the
executives of the several States, to arm and equip, and hold in
readiness to march at a moment's notice, eighty thousand militia; that
money be appropriated for paying and subsisting such troops; and also
that money be appropriated for erecting on the Western border one or
more arsenals, as the President may judge proper. Monsieur Talleyrand,
this means but one thing: that the United States is ready to act at
once if France does not recognize our right of deposit; and I beg you
will use your influence with the First Consul, that he will not send
General Bernadotte until this question is determined."

Mr. Talleyrand, with another shrug of his shoulders, seemed to
disclaim any influence with the First Consul, though he said:

"If you will make me an offer for the whole of Louisiana that I can
convey to him, I have no doubt it will carry great weight."

"I must decline to do so, Monsieur, as I am expecting Mr. Monroe in a
day or two."

Suddenly Mr. Livingston changed his tone. It was no longer one of mild
argument, but as of one who called another to account. I was
astonished that he dared so address the powerful Minister of Foreign
Relations.

"I have long been endeavoring to bring you to some point, Monsieur,
but, unfortunately, without effect. I wish merely to have the
negotiation opened by any proposition on your part. It was with that
view I sent you a note a few days ago, to which, as yet, I have
received no answer."

The great man sounded to me surprisingly meek as he replied:

"I would have answered your note earlier, Mr. Livingston, but I have
been waiting, hoping I could give you some more satisfactory reply. I
will delay no longer. I will answer it; but it will have to be
evasively, for Louisiana is not ours."

I caught a glimpse of Mr. Livingston's countenance; a more sardonic
smile I have never seen--a smile which said as plainly as words, "You
are lying." He spoke with frigid courtesy:

"It seems strange that I should be better informed than the Minister
of Foreign Relations," he said, "but I have seen the treaty. Moreover,
I know that the Consul has appointed officers to govern the colony,
and he has himself told me that General Victor was to take possession.
And, what seems to me most convincing proof--why does the First Consul
send General Bernadotte to the United States to treat in relation to
Louisiana, if Louisiana does not belong to France?"

I thought that would have floored even Talleyrand; but not at all.
With another shrug of his shoulders, and putting together his
finger-tips in a manner that gave him a most indifferent air, he only
persisted in saying that they had it in contemplation, but had not yet
secured it. I wondered what Mr. Livingston would say next, but I need
not have feared for him. Quick as thought, and all smiles and
amiability, he responded to the minister:

"I am very well pleased to understand this from you, Monsieur,
because, if so, we will not commit ourselves with you by taking it
from Spain, to whom, by your account, it still belongs. And as we have
just cause of complaint against Spain, if Mr. Monroe concurs in my
opinion, we will negotiate no further on the subject with you, but
advise our government to take possession."

For the first time Mr. Talleyrand seemed moved. He sprang to his feet
and spoke quickly:

"I beg you will take no such measures at present, Mr. Livingston. I
will answer your note, though I must still say, as I have said before,
it will have to be evasively."

Mr. Livingston, who had also risen to his feet, bowed formally.

"I shall be glad to receive any communication from you, Citizen
Minister, but we are not disposed to trifle. The times are critical,
and though I do not know what instructions Mr. Monroe may bring, I am
perfectly satisfied they will require a precise and prompt notice. I
am very fearful, from the little progress I have made, my government
will consider me as a very indolent negotiator."

Mr. Talleyrand laughed, a high, rasping laugh, but evidently intended
to be of great good humor.

"I will give you a certificate, Mr. Livingston, and you can send it
home to your government, that you are the most importunate negotiator
I have ever met with."

Their conference seemed to be ended; they turned and walked toward the
house, leaving me to ponder with wonder and amaze at what I had
listened to, and with keen admiration for the part Mr. Livingston had
taken in the matter. I had always been led to believe that no man
could hold his own against the shrewd and unfathomable Abbé; but, if I
mistook not, this time Mr. Livingston had not only held his own, but
got much the better of him.

Suddenly a thought flashed into my mind. What did Talleyrand mean by
repeating over and over, and in such significant phrase, that his
answer must be "evasive"? Could it be possible that he was intimating
that a consideration would be necessary to make it more decided? I
believed that he had so intimated, and that Mr. Livingston had
understood him, and had repelled the intimation with scorn.

Then again there flashed into my mind the two million dollars that had
been voted the President to use "as he thought best" in adjusting this
matter. Was it intended to use in buying up "such creatures," I said
scornfully to myself, "as Talleyrand"? Vague insinuations in those
speeches in Congress I had listened to now seemed to me as clear as
day.

Hot with indignation and shame,--my indignation for Talleyrand, my
shame that my country could stoop to such measures,--I rushed into the
house to my uncle. He had been entertaining Colonel Livingston while
the other two were holding their conference; but all three gentlemen
were gone now, and I found him sitting quietly in his library,
reading. I had flung the door wide as I entered, and I stopped on the
threshold.

"Monsieur, what does it mean?" I cried. "Does Monsieur Talleyrand
want Mr. Livingston to offer him a bribe? And were the two millions of
dollars given to Mr. Jefferson for such base purposes?"

My uncle looked up, startled and amazed beyond measure. He did not at
all take in my meaning, but he was very sensible of my rudeness. My
uncle was ever the most amiable of men and the most tolerant, but for
correctness of deportment and elegance of manner he was a stickler,
and so flagrant a breach of both was intolerable to him.

"I think you forget yourself, sir," he said coldly; and that was all
he said, but his words cut like tempered steel in quivering flesh. A
great wave of mortification rushed in a crimson flood to the very
roots of my hair.

"I am most truly sorry, sir, to have been so rude," I stammered, "and
I beg you will not think that we do not know good manners in America.
I fear I am ever slow to think and headlong to act, and it has often
brought me to grief."

My uncle, who, as I said, was all amiability, forgave me at once, and
invited me most cordially to enter his library. I was loath to intrude
after my great rudeness, but he would not let me off.

"Come in, come in," he said, "and I will answer your question by
another. What has led you to think that Mr. Talleyrand desires a bribe
from Mr. Livingston? Has any one been saying so to you?"

Then was I in greater confusion than before. I did not know whether
Mr. Livingston would desire me to say anything about the interview to
which I had been accidentally made a party, and I had intended to say
nothing to any one until I had had a chance to find out his wishes;
and now, in my indignation, I had entirely forgot my resolution and
betrayed myself. There was no way out but to make a clean breast of my
part in it.

So I told my uncle how I had been caught in the summer-house, and been
invited to become a listener to secrets of state. My uncle threw back
his head and laughed long and loud. But when he had calmed down a
little, he looked at me keenly.

"So you think Mr. Talleyrand wanted a bribe from Mr. Livingston? Would
you mind telling me what he said that led you to think so?"

Now was I greatly embarrassed, for I had fully resolved that not one
iota of information of which I had become the possessor so innocently
should pass my lips without Mr. Livingston's sanction. My uncle
noticed my embarrassment, and spoke quickly:

"Never mind, my boy. It is no doubt just as well that you should not
tell me what you feel you have no right to repeat; but it would make
no real difference. I see that you are trustworthy, and I do not mind
telling you that the First Consul is of somewhat the same opinion. He
does not altogether trust the Minister of Foreign Relations, and it is
more than likely the negotiations will be taken out of his hands and
put into mine. It is more than likely also that it was because Mr.
Livingston does not trust him that he desired to have you present as a
witness. Now you see how I trust you. These are matters of grave
import, my boy, and if you had been eager to tell me all you had
heard I would have been loath indeed to confide in you, as I have just
done."

I glowed with pleasure at my uncle's words, and thanked him most
earnestly for his confidence, which I told him was not misplaced. And
then, fearing I was intruding too long upon his hours of privacy (for
they were few indeed, and greatly prized, I knew), I bowed myself out
of his library, and dashed for a ride on Fatima down the crowded
avenue. For it was upon Fatima's back I could ever think best, and I
had much to think over: the amazing conversation I had listened to; my
uncle's confidence to me; and last of all, and which set my pulses
throbbing and the blood tingling to my finger-tips--Mr. Monroe would
be in Paris in a day or two!




CHAPTER XX

BONAPARTE GIVES ENGLAND A RIVAL

    "Great let me call him, for he conquered me."


The next morning was Easter, and, dressed in a new suit of
puce-colored ferrandine, with fresh ruffles of finest lace, and a new
plume in my hat, I walked decorously beside my aunt through the
thronged streets, every one dressed in his best and every one going
the same way--to the Church of the Madeleine, to see the First Consul
attend service. The sun was shining, birds were singing, the air was
soft and warm and filled with the mingled perfume of flowers and
incense, borne out through the open doors of all the churches.

The world was happy, and so was I. I was greatly excited, too, for I
was to behold, for the first time, the man who held in his hand the
destinies of nations, and before whose terrible word even our own
proud republic trembled.

I had been three weeks in Paris and had not seen him. It seemed to be
my ill fortune never to be on the streets when he made one of his
dashing progresses through them, and though there had been several
levees my wardrobe had not been in condition to attend them. At
least, so my aunt thought. I think I would have been willing to don
once more the old plum-colored velvets for the sake of seeing the
great Bonaparte, but Madame Marbois thought otherwise.

"Nobody is such a stickler for forms and ceremonies, or such a lover
of magnificence, as the First Consul," said she, "and if you want to
make a good impression upon him, or do credit to your family at home
and to your uncle and to me, you must wait for your new costumes."

So she had me to the tailor's, and more suits were ordered than I
thought I could wear in a lifetime. When they came home and my man
Cæsar (my own colored boy whom I had brought with me from home) had
laid them all out for me in my room, I thought them well worth waiting
for. There were suits for church and suits for dinner, suits for
riding and for walking, and, most resplendent of all, two court
costumes. One especially of white satin with much gold lace and
bullion quite took my breath away. Now I have always had a weakness
for fine clothes that I secretly deprecated, for I feared it was a
womanish weakness quite unbefitting a soldier of fortune, which was
the career I had laid out for myself and was quite determined upon.
Yet I have never found that my liking for fine clothes has made me
less ready to draw my sword to help the innocent or weak, and so I
hope it may not be a sign in me of any lack of true manliness.

Be this as it may, I was walking joyously beside my aunt that
beautiful Easter morning, and part of the joy in my heart was for the
beautiful puce-colored ferrandine that sat so well and had an air of
distinction I was sure no other clothes of mine had ever had, for
these were made in Paris.

I have no very distinct recollection of the services; indeed, I hardly
paid enough attention to them to follow them decorously, for I was
consumed with an eager desire for but one event--the entrance of the
First Consul.

A subdued murmur (almost, it seemed to me, like suppressed "Vive le
rois") announced to me that he was just entering the door, and as I
sat by the aisle down which he was coming, and far to the front, by
turning in my seat and stretching my neck shamelessly I had time to
see him well.

Could this little fellow, who might easily have stood under my arm
stretched level with my shoulder, could he be the hero of Marengo! the
Dictator of France who held all Europe trembling in his grasp! I think
that I had heretofore had an unconscious feeling that greatness of
stature meant greatness of heart and mind and courage, and I had
gloried in my inches. Now I was almost ashamed of them, for this
little man coming rapidly down the aisle with a firm, quick step
seemed to breathe power from the chiseled curve of the nostril, from
the haughty curl of the beautiful lips, but most of all from the
imperial flash of the dark eyes under level brows. If his face had not
been so full of power, yes, and of arrogance, it would have been
almost too beautiful for a man's face, framed in silky brown hair
thinning at the temples, but curling in one dark lock above the broad
white brow.

But if it humbled me to see so much greatness in such small stature,
it comforted me not a little to observe that the great man was no
despiser of dress. He might have been molded into his small-clothes
and waistcoat of white doeskin, so exactly did they fit every line and
curve of his perfect figure. His dark-blue military coat of finest
cloth was set off by heavy epaulets of gold and by a broad azure
ribbon crossing his breast and bearing the jeweled insignia of the
Legion of Honor. The crimson sword-sash which bore his sword sheathed
in a scabbard of gold flashing with jewels, completed in his own dress
the tricolor of France. He wore high military boots, I think to carry
out the military effect of his epaulets and sword, for it was in the
character of soldier, the hero of many battles, the winner of glory
for France, that the people idolized him.

To the right and the left, his eagle glance took in the whole great
congregation, and as he passed it fell on me. His glances were never
idle ones; I knew he had seen me, and my pulses quivered and fluttered
like a young maiden's. From that moment I was as much his slave as any
soldier of La Vendée, and had he not himself disillusioned me most
bitterly, I should still have been regarding him as the hero of my
dreams, _sans peur et sans reproche_, the greatest man and greatest
soldier of all time. I still believe the latter title belongs to him,
but not the first, for a great man must be a good man too, like our
Washington, and that Bonaparte was not.

It is no wonder, then, that I was quite beside myself with excitement
when at déjeuner my uncle said to me:

"Would you like to ride out to St. Cloud with me this afternoon? The
First Consul has summoned me to a conference with him, if I mistake
not, on the subject you heard discussed yesterday."

"Oh, thank you, sir. And shall I be present at the conference?" I
spoke quickly and foolishly, for I was greatly excited.

My uncle laughed.

"Well, hardly, my boy, unless you find a way, as you did yesterday, of
compelling the First Consul to invite you to be present."

I liked not to be laughed at, but I knew it was but my uncle's teasing
fashion, and all the way out through the beautiful Boulogne woods, the
birds singing, the sun shining, the soft spring airs blowing, the
alders and willows pale pink and yellow in the distance, the great
buds of the horse-chestnuts just bursting into leaf and everywhere the
vivid green of the fresh turf; my heart beating high with happy
excitement to be in beautiful Paris and on my way to historic St.
Cloud, where dwelt the most wonderful man of the world; and Fatima
prancing and curveting under me, her dainty hoofs scarce touching the
earth as she danced along the green allées of St. Cloud's beautiful
park, sharing my happy excitement (though only, I suppose, for a
horse's natural joy in trees and grass and sunshine)--all that swift
and beautiful ride, galloping beside my uncle's coach, his words rang
in my ears, and I longed with all my heart to be present at that
conference: not so much to hear what was said as to see the great
Bonaparte saying it.

I parted from my uncle at one of the great fountains, he riding up in
his coach to the palace doors, and Fatima and I starting off on an
exploring tour around the park. He would not hear to my waiting for
him, for he said he might be detained for hours, and indeed it was
possible the Consul would keep him all night at St. Cloud, as
sometimes happened, to call upon at any hour of the night when some
new suggestion occurred to him.

Riding fast, as was my custom when alone with Fatima, it did not take
us long to exhaust the beauties of the park, and my eyes began to turn
longingly toward the palace. Somewhere within its stately walls I
supposed the conference was going on. Verily, there were some
compensations in diplomacy when it gave a man like my uncle a chance
to hold close converse with a man like the First Consul. (And in that
I do not intend to speak slightingly of my Uncle François, for he was
ever in my regard the most admirable of men. Only, it seemed to me
then that to be able to talk familiarly with the great Bonaparte was a
privilege above the deserts of ordinary mortals.)

I intended to remain at St. Cloud until toward evening, for if the
conference should prove short I might still have the pleasure of my
uncle's company on the homeward trip. But time began to hang heavily
on my hands, and it occurred to me that I would ask the sentry, whom I
had seen from a distance walking up and down in front of the main
entrance, whether it were possible to gain admission to the palace. I
thought it probable that it was not open to visitors, since the First
Consul was occupying it, but it would do no harm to find out, and if
by chance I should be admitted, I would at least have the pleasure of
wandering through the rooms where he dwelt.

It was necessary first to dispose of Fatima, and a thicket of
evergreen at one side of the palace caught my eye as affording a
grateful shade from the warm afternoon sun (which so early in the
season could be found only under evergreens) and a hiding-place from
any prowling thief who might want to steal her, or from any
troublesome guard who might come upon her and carry her off to the
Consul's stables.

So into the thicket I rode, following a winding path that led toward
the upper end near the palace, and at the very upper edge I found just
what I wanted--a clump of bushes so thick set that they formed an
almost impenetrable screen. They were lower than the other
evergreens--not much higher than my horse's ears, but that was high
enough. Into the midst of this clump I rode Fatima and dismounted.

"Stand here, Sweetheart," I said softly, "and budge not a step for any
man but your master."

She rubbed her nose against my shoulder in token that she understood,
and I whispered again in her ear:

"Not a whinny, not a sound, my Beauty," and left her, feeling sure no
man could steal her and no guard could lead her away by guile or
force, nor would she betray her presence there by any noise.

As I left the evergreens, intending to go around to the front of the
building and speak to the sentry, I saw, coming down the path toward
me, a young and pretty woman, who, I recognized by her dress, must be
in service at the palace.

"I will inquire from her," I said to myself promptly, "for she will
know as well as the sentry whether there is any admission, and she
will no doubt have a much pleasanter way of saying either yes or no."

So, as she was about to pass me with a little curtsy and a pretty
smile, I stopped her.

"Mademoiselle," I said, and doffed my hat, "is it permitted to see the
palace to-day?"

"No, Monsieur," she answered, "unless one is invited or has business
of importance with the First Consul."

Now I have ever had great faith in woman's wit, and especially a
Frenchwoman's, and it suddenly struck me if this one should prove as
quick-witted as most of her kind, she would know how to secure my
admission into the palace; and if she should prove as kindly disposed
as I believed the sight of gold and a pleasant word might make her,
then was my success assured.

"Mademoiselle," I said, and my manner was as deferential as it might
have been to her mistress. "I am not invited, and I have no business
of importance with the First Consul; but I am from America, and it
would please me greatly to see the rooms where the famous general
lives. Cannot Mademoiselle think of a way?" and I slipped into her
hand a louis d'or.

She curtsied again and smiled again, and then she answered:

"It is difficult, Monsieur, but I have a friend on guard in the upper
corridor. If I can arrange with him to let us pass, I can show
Monsieur the grand salon, the little salon, and the state dining-room.
Would that please Monsieur?"

"Vastly," I answered, for though it might not be seeing all I would
like to see, it would be doing something to while away the tedium of
waiting, and there seemed a little of the spice of adventure about it
that pleased my restless spirit.

"I will go and consult Gaston," said Mademoiselle Félice (for that,
she told me, was her pretty name, and I took it as a felicitous omen),
"and I will return in five minutes. If Monsieur will await me by the
pines, he will not have to wait long."

Yet it seemed long. I am sure many five minutes had passed, and I had
begun to think I would never see again either my gold piece or my
pretty Félice, when she came tripping up in an entirely different
direction from the one in which she had left me.

She had had trouble. Gaston had scruples. Suppose harm were intended
his general? Women were easily deceived. Her "American" might be a
British assassin in disguise. She had had to make herself
responsible--she, Félice!--for my innocence and honor. She had also
been obliged to show Gaston the piece of gold I had given her and to
assure him there would be another for him if he were complaisant. I
judged, also, that she had found it necessary to offer him a bribe
quite as tangible as the gold piece but less mercenary, for her face
was rosier and her eyes brighter and her hair a little more disheveled
than when I had first seen her.

And now began a real adventure, for Félice assured me much caution
would be necessary. How we both slipped out of the pine thicket, she
some distance ahead, I strolling carelessly behind, how by almost
insensible little signs she indicated to me when to advance and when
to stay my steps; how she finally guided me through a narrow rear
entrance and by dark corridors and winding staircases to the very
corridor Gaston was guarding; and how I slipped another gold piece
into Gaston's hand as we passed him, would be too long in the telling.

Gaston was doing sentry duty before two doors some twenty paces apart.
One of them opened into a dark side corridor (where we had passed him
and I had slipped the gold into his hand), and the other into the head
of the main corridor. We had just entered the main corridor, and
Félice was leading the way into the grand salon, when she turned
quickly:

"Go back, Monsieur," she said in an excited whisper, "here comes an
officer!"

I had caught sight of him, too, and I was the more ready to turn back
quickly, because in my hasty glimpse the officer had looked to me very
much like the Chevalier Le Moyne. I thought it was more than likely I
was mistaken, but I did not wish to run any possible risk of being
seen by him, and I hoped that in the semi-obscurity of that part of
the corridor he had either not seen us at all or at least not
recognized us.

We fled precipitately back through the dark side corridor, I with a
keen feeling of elation (for a sense of risk or peril of any kind
always sends my spirits to the highest point), but Félice, I believe,
beginning to repent of her bargain.

"Monsieur," she whispered, "we will go back the way we came--" but
what further she was about to say I know not, for at that moment a
door opened at the farther end of the side corridor. It was a door we
must pass in finding our way out, and through it now we heard much
loud laughing and loud talking of men. Evidently a party at cards was
breaking up, and through that open door some of the players were about
to pass. Our retreat was cut off.

Félice clutched her hair in desperation.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" she moaned, "I will lose my place! I will lose my
life!"

I had hardly time to think of my own plight, I was so sorry for her
distress, and so remorseful to think I had brought her into such
straits for the sake of a silly adventure.

But an idea struck Félice. We had come to a stand beside Gaston and
the one of the two doors he was guarding which opened into the side
corridor. He had himself stopped a moment in his pacing to and fro,
perplexed by our dilemma.

"Quick, Gaston," Félice whispered eagerly, "let Monsieur into the
dressing-room closet; it is the only place!"

Gaston seemed to demur, but Félice overruled him imperiously.

"You must, Gaston! And be quick! Would you have Monsieur Fouché throw
us both into prison? I will be back for him in a few minutes, as soon
as all is quiet."

Gaston hesitated no longer. He threw open the door before which we
were standing, and together they hurried me into a room which I saw at
once was a dressing-room belonging to a gentleman.

"You must be very still, Monsieur," whispered Félice; then she opened
a door and thrust me into a dark closet, closing the door noiselessly
behind me as she whispered, "I will return in a few minutes."

I was but as wax in her hands, for having led her into such distress
and peril, I felt that I must submit to any means that would save her
from disastrous results. Yet I liked not being shut up in a dark
closet in a gentleman's dressing-room. I began, too, to think of my
own peril, and for a full minute after finding myself in my
hiding-place my knees did so shake beneath me, and my heart did so
pound within me, I was as one deaf and unconscious to all
surroundings.

But as my excitement began to calm itself I became aware that I had
for some time been hearing several voices: one, which did most of the
talking, high, rasping, vehement, passionate; the other two, making
brief or monosyllabic replies, low-toned and restrained. I began to
perceive, too, that I was not entirely in the dark. A faint light was
coming through between slightly parted curtains which seemed to
separate my closet from some other apartment than the dressing-room. I
looked through this aperture, barely wide enough for the line of
vision, not wide enough to betray me to any one in the room beyond,
especially since I was in the dark and the Easter sun was flooding the
richly furnished apartment.

Standing in an attitude of respect on either side of a low marble
mantel bearing a wonderful golden clock stood two gentlemen. One of
them was my uncle, Monsieur Marbois, and the other, whom I did not
know, I learned later was Minister Decrés. Gesticulating vehemently
and speaking with great excitement, through the center of the room
back and forth strode rapidly the First Consul!

I was overwhelmed at the sight. By what trick of fate had I been
thrust into the very midst of this conference at which I had so longed
to be present? My blood rushed through my veins at such tumultuous
pace as carried my reason with it. No thought of listening to what was
not intended for me to hear entered my mind, only a great joy that I
was in the midst of some strange adventure such as I had read of in
books, where wonderful things happen to the hero who hides behind an
arras. And no more wonderful thing could happen to me than to be
seeing and hearing the great Bonaparte!

And this is what he was saying:

"I know the full value of Louisiana, and I have been desirous of
repairing the fault of the French negotiator who abandoned it in
1763. A few lines of a treaty have restored it to me, and I have
scarcely recovered it when I must expect to lose it. But if it escapes
from me," he stopped and turned suddenly to the two ministers, lifting
a threatening hand, "it shall one day cost dearer to those who oblige
me to strip myself of it than to those to whom I wish to deliver it."

I thought at first this threat was uttered against the United States,
and so terrible did he look, so like an avenging fury, that I
shuddered as I thought of my country the object of his vindictive
wrath. But his next words enlightened me. He resumed his rapid stride
and went on speaking with the same excitement:

"The English have successively taken from France Canada, Cape Breton,
Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and India. They are engaged in exciting
troubles in San Domingo. _They shall not have the Mississippi, which
they covet._

"Louisiana is nothing in comparison with their conquests in all parts
of the globe, and yet the jealousy they feel at the restoration of
this colony to the sovereignty of France acquaints me with their wish
to take possession of it, and it is thus they will begin the war.

"They have twenty ships of war in the Gulf of Mexico; they sail over
those seas as sovereigns! The conquest of Louisiana would be easy, if
they only took the trouble to make a descent there. I have not a
moment to lose in putting it out of their reach! I know not whether
they are not already there. It is their usual course, and if I had
been in their place, I would not have waited. I wish, if there is
still time, to take away from them any idea that they may have of ever
possessing that colony."

[Illustration: "He stopped and turned suddenly to the two ministers"]

Once more he stopped and faced the two ministers, and gazed at them
steadily for a moment, first one, then the other, before he uttered
his next words. I know not whether he paused because he hesitated to
utter them, or because he wished to make them more forcible. Then he
said slowly and impressively, with no trace of the excitement that had
characterized his former words:

"I think of ceding it to the United States."

If he had expected to create a sensation he was not disappointed; the
irrepressible start of each, the glowing eyes, the eager desire to
speak expressed in both countenances were abundant evidences of it,
and I in my dark closet was far more excited than either: for here was
more than my wildest dreams to be realized. But Bonaparte had not
finished his speech; with a gesture restraining them from giving
utterance to the words that were hurrying to their lips, he went on:

"You will say that I can scarcely cede it to them, for it is not yet
in our possession. If, however, I leave the least time to our enemies,
I shall transmit only an empty title to those republicans whose
friendship I seek. They ask of me only one town in Louisiana; but I
already consider the colony as entirely lost, and it appears to me
that in the hands of this growing power it will be more useful to the
policy of France, and even to its commerce, than if I should attempt
to keep it. Citizen Minister," looking at my uncle, "what is your
opinion?"

My uncle, who had been all eagerness to speak at first, seemed to
hesitate now that the opportunity was given him.

"I believe, Citizen First Consul," he said slowly, "that we should not
hesitate to make a sacrifice of that which is about slipping away from
us. War with England is inevitable. Shall we be able with inferior
naval forces to defend Louisiana against that power? At the time of
the discovery of Louisiana the neighboring provinces were as feeble as
herself. They are now powerful and Louisiana is still in her infancy.
The country is scarcely at all inhabited; you have not fifty soldiers
there. Where are your means of sending garrisons thither? Can we
restore fortifications that are in ruins, and construct a long chain
of forts upon a frontier of four hundred leagues? If England lets you
undertake these things, it is because they will drain your resources,
and she will feel a secret joy in seeing you exhaust yourself in
efforts of which she alone will derive the profit. You will send out a
squadron; but while it is crossing the oceans, the colony will fall,
and the squadron will in its turn be in great danger. Louisiana is
open to the English from the north by the Great Lakes, and if, to the
south, they show themselves at the mouth of the Mississippi, New
Orleans will immediately fall into their hands. This conquest would be
still easier to the Americans: they can reach the Mississippi by
several navigable rivers, and to be masters of the country it will be
sufficient for them to enter it. The colony has existed for a century,
and, in spite of efforts and sacrifices of every kind, the last
account of its population and resources attests its weakness. If it
becomes a French colony and acquires increased importance, there will
be in its very prosperity a germ of independence which will not be
long in developing itself. The more it nourishes the less chance shall
we have of preserving it.

"The French have attempted to form colonies in several parts of the
continent of North America. Their efforts have everywhere proved
abortive. The English are patient and laborious; they do not fear the
solitude and silence of newly settled countries. The Frenchman, lively
and active, requires society; he is fond of conversing with neighbors.
He willingly enters on the experiment of cultivating the soil, but at
the first disappointment quits the spade and ax for the chase."

Bonaparte, as my uncle ceased talking, had thrown himself into a
fauteuil and signed to the others to sit down. He had listened with
keen attention to my uncle's long speech, but now he interrupted him
abruptly and harshly.

"How does it happen that the French, who are incapable of succeeding
in a continental colony, have always made great progress in the West
Indies?"

"Because," replied Monsieur Marbois, "the slaves perform all the
labors. The whites, who would soon be exhausted by the heat of the
climate, have, however, the vigor of mind necessary to direct their
operations."

"By whom is the land cultivated in Louisiana?" asked the First Consul.

"Slavery," answered my uncle, "has given Louisiana half her
population. An inexcusable imprudence was committed in suddenly
granting to the slaves of San Domingo a liberty for which they had not
been prepared. The blacks and whites both have been victims of this
great fault."

"I am undecided," said Bonaparte, "whether it would be better to
maintain or abolish slavery in Louisiana."

"Of all the scourges that have afflicted the human race," responded my
uncle, "slavery is the most detestable! But even humanity requires
great precautions in the application of the remedy, and you cannot
apply it if Louisiana should again become French. Governments still
half resist emancipation: they tolerate in secret what they ostensibly
condemn, and they themselves are embarrassed by their false position.
The general sentiment of the world is in favor of emancipation; it is
in vain that the colonists and planters wish to arrest a movement
which public opinion approves. The occupation of Louisiana--a colony
with slaves--will occasion us more expense than it will afford us
profit."

As my uncle ceased speaking, Bonaparte turned to Minister Decrés and
with a motion of his hand indicated that he was ready to hear his
opinion. The minister began eagerly:

"We are still at peace with England," said he; "the colony has just
been ceded to us; it depends on the First Consul to preserve it. It
would not be wise in him to abandon, for fear of a doubtful danger,
the most important establishment that we can form out of France, and
despoil ourselves of it for no other reason than the possibility of a
war; it would be as well, if not better, that it should be taken from
us by force of arms.

"You will not acknowledge, by a resignation of Louisiana, that England
is sovereign mistress of the seas, that she is there invulnerable, and
that no one can possess colonies except at her good pleasure! It does
not become you to fear the kings of England! If they should seize
Louisiana, as some would have you fear, Hanover would be immediately
in your hands, as a certain pledge of its restoration. France,
deprived of her navy and her colonies, is stripped of half her
splendor and of a great part of her strength. Louisiana can indemnify
us for all our losses. There does not exist on the globe a single
port, a single city, susceptible of becoming as important as New
Orleans, and the neighborhood of the American States already makes it
one of the most commercial in the world. The Mississippi does not
reach there until it has received twenty other rivers, most of which
surpass in size the finest rivers of Europe.

"The navigation to the Indies, by doubling the Cape of Good Hope, has
changed the course of European trade and ruined Venice and Genoa. What
will be its direction if, at the Isthmus of Panama, a simple canal
should be opened to connect the one ocean with the other? The
revolution which navigation will then experience will be still more
considerable, and the circumnavigation of the globe will become easier
than the long voyages that are now made in going to and returning from
India. Louisiana will be on this new route, and it will then be
acknowledged that this possession is of inestimable value.

"Finally, France, after her long troubles, requires such a colony for
her internal pacification; it will be for our country what a century
ago were for England the settlements which the emigrants from the
three kingdoms have raised to so high a degree of prosperity. It will
be the asylum of our religious and political dissenters; it will cure
a part of the maladies which the Revolution has caused, and be the
supreme conciliator of all the parties into which we are divided. You
will there find the remedies for which you search with so much
solicitude!"

I thought this a very bold speech, and it was uttered with much fire
and enthusiasm. I could not be sure how the Consul took it, for he
said not a word through it all. When the minister had finished
speaking he dismissed them both with a few words, but telling them he
should expect them to remain all night.

As the door closed behind the two ministers, Bonaparte threw himself
back in his chair, his arms folded across his breast, his head
drooping forward, in an attitude of deep thought. It seemed to me more
than likely that Minister Decrés's words had touched his pride and his
patriotism, and he was hesitating now at the thought of getting rid
of France's last important colony.

He was interrupted in his reverie by an officer bringing in the
despatches from London which had just arrived, and he sent word by the
officer to have Minister Marbois sent to him immediately.

It was only a few moments until the return of my uncle, but in the
interval I could see that Bonaparte was glancing through the
despatches with such lightning rapidity that to me, for whom all
reading is slow work, it seemed impossible he should have grasped
their meaning. As Monsieur Marbois entered the apartment Bonaparte
greeted him.

"Citizen Minister," he said, "the despatches from London have arrived.
Have you seen them?"

"I was just reading them," replied my uncle, "when you sent for me."

"Did you see that England is preparing for war? That both naval and
military preparations are going forward with extraordinary rapidity?"

"Yes," said the minister, "so I understand."

"Perhaps you saw, too, that in the American Congress Mr. Ross proposed
that the President should raise fifty thousand troops and capture New
Orleans?"

"Yes," repeated my uncle, "I saw it, and I regret greatly that any
cause of difference should arise between our countries."

The Consul sprang to his feet and resumed his rapid striding up and
down the room without uttering a word for full two minutes, but with a
deep frown between his eyes, as I could see whenever he faced me in
his hurried pacing to and fro.

Suddenly he stopped and turned to my uncle.

"Irresolution and deliberation are no longer in season," he said
slowly, and then added with sudden fire:

"I renounce Louisiana! It is not only New Orleans I will cede, it is
the whole colony without reservation. I renounce it with the greatest
regret! To attempt obstinately to retain it would be the greatest
folly. I direct you to negotiate this affair with the envoys of the
United States. Do not even await the arrival of Mr. Monroe; have an
interview to-morrow with Mr. Livingston. But I require a great deal of
money for this war with England, and I would not like to commence it
with new contributions. I will be moderate, in consideration of the
necessity in which I am of making a sale; but keep this to yourself. I
want fifty millions, and for less than that sum I will not treat; I
would rather make a desperate attempt to keep these fine countries.
To-morrow you shall have full power."

I think my uncle was somewhat aghast at the suddenness of the decision
to sell the whole country, though he had himself advised it, and still
more at the great responsibility thrust upon him of conducting the
negotiations in place of the Minister of Foreign Relations. Perhaps,
too, now that the sale was fully determined upon, he was touched with
regrets and misgivings. At any rate, he said, somewhat hesitatingly:

"You feel sure, Citizen Consul, that we have a right to cede the
sovereignty of a people without consulting the people themselves? Have
we a right to abandon what the Germans call the _souls_? Can they be
the subject of a contract of sale or exchange?"

Now I really think from what I had seen of Bonaparte's reverie while
the minister was out of the room, of his frowning cogitations in that
rapid walk to and fro, and of the solemnity of his manner when he
finally announced his determination to sell, that he had been troubled
by the same misgivings. But none the less did his lip curl satirically
as he listened to my uncle, and his eyes narrow and glow with a
malevolent fire. He hardly waited for him to finish till he burst
forth bitterly:

"You are giving me, in all its perfection, the ideology of the law of
nature and nations! But I require money to make war on the richest
nation of the world. Send your maxims to the London market! I am sure
they will be greatly admired there; and yet no great attention is paid
to them when the question is the occupation of the finest regions of
Asia!"

I thought my uncle would have wilted under such bitter sarcasm, for
never have I seen anything more malevolent than Bonaparte's whole
aspect, and I trembled for him. But he seemed not greatly afraid of
the great man's bluster, and persisted in his argument when it seemed
to me the part of wisdom would have been to keep silence.

"But, Citizen Consul," he urged, "are you not afraid by ceding such
great possessions to America you may make her in the course of two or
three centuries too powerful for Europe--the mistress of the world?"

The Consul's lip curled again. He answered in a harsh voice:

"My foresight does not embrace such remote fears. I have no children;
after me the deluge! Besides, we may hereafter expect rivalries among
the members of the Union. The confederations that are called perpetual
only last till one of the contracting parties finds it to his interest
to break them."

The minister made no reply, though Bonaparte waited a moment as if
expecting one. Then he went on:

"Mr. Monroe is on the point of arriving. To this minister, going a
thousand leagues from his constituents, the President must have given
secret instructions for the stipulation of the payments to be made,
more extensive than the ostensible authorization of Congress. Neither
this minister nor his colleague is prepared for a decision which goes
infinitely beyond anything they are about to ask us. Begin by making
the overture without any subterfuge. You will acquaint me, day by day,
hour by hour, of your progress. The cabinet of London is informed of
the measures adopted at Washington, but it can have no suspicion of
those I am now taking. Observe the greatest secrecy, and recommend it
to the American ministers: they have not a less interest than yourself
in conforming to this counsel. You will correspond with Monsieur de
Talleyrand, who alone knows my intentions. Keep him informed of the
progress of this affair."

All this was uttered in a sharp clipping tone of voice, at times harsh
and rasping, that carried with it an inconceivable effect of
autocratic power. As he finished he made a gesture of dismissal, but
as the minister was about to withdraw he called him back again.

"Monsieur Marbois," he said in a far gentler tone than he had used at
all heretofore, "there will be a treaty drawn up between you and the
American ministers, of course, and I would like to write one article
of that treaty. If you will sit down a few moments I will not detain
you long."

My uncle bowed and seated himself, and with marvelous rapidity
Bonaparte's pen flew over the sheet before him. In scarcely more than
a minute's time he looked up from his paper.

"This is the article, Monsieur Marbois, that I wish you to make it
your business to see embodied somewhere in the treaty." And then he
read slowly, in a firm, clear voice, with no longer any rasping tones:

"The inhabitants of the ceded territory shall be incorporated in the
Union of the United States, and admitted as soon as possible,
according to the principles of the Federal Constitution, to the
enjoyment of all the rights, advantages, and immunities of citizens of
the United States. And in the meantime they shall be maintained and
protected in the free enjoyment of their liberty, property, and the
religion which they profess."

The Consul rose to his feet as he finished reading and extended the
paper toward my uncle.

"Citizen Minister," he said (and I almost thought there was a ring of
sadness in his tone, but that I could not believe such an emotion
possible to the imperious conqueror), "let the Louisianians know that
we separate ourselves from them with regret; that we stipulate in
their favor everything that they can desire; and let them hereafter,
happy in their independence, recollect that they have been Frenchmen,
and that France, in ceding them, has secured for them advantages which
they could not have obtained from a European power, however paternal
it might have been. Let them retain for us sentiments of affection;
and may their common origin, descent, language, and customs perpetuate
the friendship."

He finished speaking, and turned his back abruptly upon my uncle, who
bowed silently and withdrew. I could not see the face of either, but I
believe both were too deeply moved to utter another word. As my uncle
left the room, Bonaparte threw himself once more into his deep-armed
chair in the same attitude of reverie he had before maintained in the
interval of the minister's absence--arms folded, chin sunk deep on his
breast.

It seemed to me a long time that he sat thus, for I was growing every
moment more anxious for my own safe escape from my hiding-place.
Félice had promised to return for me in a few moments if the way was
open, and I was sure it must have been more nearly hours than moments
that I had been watching the foremost man of all the world decide the
fate of a people and the future of my own proud nation. I had been so
intensely interested that I had not noted the flight of time, but now
that the First Consul sat wrapped in thought, I, too, began to think,
to wonder, and to grow every moment more anxious. What had become of
my little guide? Had she forsaken me and left me to my fate? And
should she come for me now, would I be able, with my clumsy movements,
to escape unheard, when the room was no longer ringing with the
rasping tones of Bonaparte?

There was a deep-drawn sigh from the chair of the First Consul. He
unfolded his arms, flung back his head, and sprang to his feet, once
more pacing rapidly back and forth. Suddenly he stopped, lifted one
hand as if calling on Heaven to witness, and exclaimed aloud:

"This accession of territory strengthens forever the power of the
United States! I have just given to England a maritime rival that will
sooner or later humble her pride!"

His hand dropped upon a bell which he rang violently. Instantly there
was a little sound of scratching on the panel of a door leading into
an apartment beyond.

"Enter!" said Bonaparte, and there glided silently into the room
Rustan, the famous Mameluke attendant of whom I had heard much.

"I will dress for dinner, Rustan," said the First Consul; "call my
valet and tell him to prepare my bath."




CHAPTER XXI

A TEMPEST IN A BATH-TUB

    "The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole
    Can never be a mouse of any soul."

"Prepare my bath!" Did ever such simple words have so dire a sound?
Now was all hope of escape cut off; for was not the Consul's bath in
the very room into which the closet where I was hiding opened, and
through which I had expected to make my exit as I had made my
entrance? Now did I curse the folly that had led me into such a trap
for the sake of a mere adventure.

Whereas a moment ago I had been congratulating myself on the spirit of
enterprise and daring that had led me to be the witness of such great
and stirring events, I now despised it all as a silly boyishness which
had brought me into what seemed like to prove something more than a
foolish scrape. Nor could I help reflecting that whether death or
disgrace (which seemed to me far worse than death) awaited me, it
would not affect me alone. My uncle's reputation, and honor also,
might easily be involved in his nephew's downfall. And, most
intolerable of all, what would the Comtesse de Baloit think when she
should come to hear (as it was inevitable that she would) that I had
been caught spying like any common eavesdropper?--found hid in the
Consul's private closet, taken and done to death, as I had not the
least doubt in the world I should be!

Yet it was not in me to wait idly for the worst to happen; I began at
once to plan other means of escape than those I had been relying upon.
If I could not make my exit through the dressing-room, why not through
the other apartment, from which my closet was separated only by a
curtain?

As far as I could judge, the apartment had three entrance-doors. One
which was not within my range of vision was the one by which the
ministers had withdrawn and through which my uncle had returned. This,
no doubt, was the main entrance, and led into some public corridor,
where detection by passers-by would be certain, to say nothing of the
fact that the door was no doubt strongly guarded, and by a soldier who
would not be so complacent as Gaston had been (having neither handled
my gold nor tasted a maiden's kisses as reward for his complacency).

The second door led into the dressing-room, where even now I could
hear the splashing of water and the vigorous preparations of the valet
for the Consul's bath. That, of course, was not to be considered. The
third one was the one through which I had seen Rustan glide; and at
the thought of entering that room, and falling into the tender mercies
of the mysterious Mameluke, I shuddered. A stealthy stiletto with
poisoned point I had no doubt would make short work with me. And even
could it be possible to seize a moment when Rustan was out of the room
in attendance on his master, it was more than likely the room would
prove a _cul-de-sac_ and I would be more securely trapped than ever.

In the midst of these perplexing meditations I heard a heavy splash,
followed by a vigorous sputtering, that assured me the First Consul
was already in his bath. A moment later I heard a scratching at the
door through which my uncle had departed. ('Tis the fashion, I have
heard, at the Tuileries and St. Cloud, to scratch instead of knock.)
Rustan answered it immediately, and led the gentleman who entered
directly through the outer apartment to the dressing-room. This seemed
a novel procedure to me, but I remembered that the French often
received callers at the toilet, and perhaps it was nothing unusual for
the First Consul to receive his friends in the bath.

I could hear all that went on in the dressing-room; even the slightest
sound was as audible in my closet as if no door intervened. I was
surprised at this until I discovered that just higher than my head a
small panel, not more than three inches square, had been removed from
the door of the closet, admitting a little light and a little air. It
was through this opening that sounds were conveyed, and it was through
it that I heard the Consul's voice a moment after the visitor was
conducted through the outer apartment.

"Ah, my dear Lucien! Where were you last night, and where was my
brother Joseph? Did you not intend to join me at the Théâtre Français?
I expected you, and Talma showed great power in 'Hamlet.' I was
surprised and disappointed not to see you both there."

I do not remember what answer his brother made, but Bonaparte replied
with the greatest good humor:

"You might have seen, too, that the Parisians always like to see me.
In fact, I scarcely flattered myself they would ever become so
sympathetic when I had to shoot them down that October day in 1795."

I could scarcely believe it was the First Consul speaking, so unlike
were his tones to any I had heard from him before,--playful,
affectionate, almost tender,--and I said to myself, "Ah, this despot
has a heart! He loves his brother."

I did not hear anything more that was said for a while, for I was
revolving in my mind all possible modes of escape. I had just come to
the conclusion that the only safe way was to remain quietly where I
was until Bonaparte should have finished his bath and left his
dressing-room (which I felt sure could not be long, since he had
already been in the water for more than a quarter of an hour), when I
heard again that peculiar little scratching sound on the dressing-room
door, and Rustan entered, announcing to the Consul his brother Joseph.

"Let him come in," said the Consul; "I shall stay in the bath a
quarter of an hour longer."

Black despair seized me. A quarter of an hour seemed to me
interminable when I knew not at what moment the valet would fling open
the closet door in his search for some article of dress, and discover
me. There was nothing to do, however, but to make the best of it,
hoping against hope that the great Bonaparte, who seemed inordinately
fond of his bath, would some time be through with it and leave his
dressing-room free for me to traverse it in safety. For I had made up
my mind that I would wait no longer for Félice; the first minute that
I could be quite sure that the dressing-room was vacant, I would open
my closet door and escape, trusting to find Gaston still on guard at
the outer dressing-room door.

It occurred to me that if I were only a little taller, and could look
through that open panel just above my head, it would be well, for then
I could assure myself that the room was empty before attempting my
escape, and not stumble upon some lurking valet or Mameluke. Then I
remembered what I had noticed on entering the closet, but had not
thought of since, a low three-legged taboret, not more than five
inches high, but quite high enough, were I once upon it, to enable me
to look through the open panel. I stooped carefully down and felt
around the floor of the closet in the dark. My hand struck against it.
I picked it up and set it noiselessly directly under the small
opening, and slowly and carefully, and absolutely without making a
sound, I mounted upon it.

Just below me was the most remarkable group I had ever looked upon,
or, I have no doubt, ever shall look upon. Respectfully standing near
the bath were the two brothers Lucien and Joseph, and it was easy for
me to decide at a glance which was Joseph and which Lucien, for I had
heard much of both and knew their characteristics, though I knew not
their faces. Joseph was the handsomer of the two, and looked more like
his august brother, with the same fiery eye and mobile mouth, showing
the same excitable temperament. Lucien had the calmer face that
belongs to a scholar, though in some respects I thought it a stronger
one than his brother Joseph's. In the marble bath lay Bonaparte, only
his head and a little of his shoulders visible, for the water was
frothy and opaque from quantities of cologne, whose sweet, pungent
odor rose to my nostrils refreshingly. Bonaparte was in the act of
speaking to Joseph:

"Well, brother, have you spoken to Lucien?"

"What about!" said Joseph.

"Of our plan as to Louisiana--don't you know?"

"Of _your_ plan, you mean, my dear brother; you cannot have forgotten
that--far from being mine--"

Bonaparte interrupted him with good-natured scorn.

"Well, well, preacher, I don't need to discuss that with you; you are
so obstinate. I like better to talk about serious things with Lucien;
for, although he sometimes takes it into his head to go against me, he
knows how to give up to my idea when I think fit to change his."

Joseph's color rose quickly, and he spoke with some spirit:

"You are unjust enough to attribute to obstinacy what is the effect of
wise reflection."

Lucien was evidently afraid of an outbreak, and he interposed quickly
and laughingly:

"Then that means, brother Joseph, that I hold my ideas so lightly I
can easily be reasoned out of them."

"Ah, my dear boy," said Bonaparte, with affectionate raillery, "fear
not that any one will accuse thee of lightness. Thou art more likely
to be named 'Iron-head.'"

For a few minutes the two brothers playfully called each other
nicknames, going back to the days of their boyhood in Corsica, while
Joseph stood by, looking bored and every moment growing more
impatient. Finally he broke in quite brusquely:

"Well, you say nothing more about your famous plan!"

Bonaparte turned at once to Lucien.

"Well, Lucien, I have made up my mind to sell Louisiana to the
Americans."

"Indeed!" said Lucien, in a tone of curiosity, but with so much
coolness I suspected he was not hearing the announcement for the first
time.

Bonaparte turned to Joseph with an air of triumph.

"Well, Joseph, you see Lucien does not utter loud cries about this
thing. Yet he almost has a right to, seeing that Louisiana is, so to
speak, his own conquest."

I knew what the Consul meant by that, for it was Lucien who had
negotiated the San Ildefonso treaty which gave Louisiana to France.
This speech of his brother's seemed to irritate Joseph still more, and
he replied quite sharply:

"I assure you, if Lucien says nothing, he thinks none the less."

"Indeed!" said Bonaparte, his eyes beginning to flash and his lip to
curl. "And why should he be diplomatic with me?"

It was evident that Lucien thought it time to come forward to support
Joseph, but that he also wished to placate the rising wrath of the
Consul. So he spoke very gently:

"I really think as my brother Joseph does on this matter, and I
undertake to say that the Chambers will never assent."

Bonaparte's head shot up above the rim of the bath-tub, and he leveled
a fiery glance at Lucien.

"_You_ undertake to say! A pretty piece of business!" with an air and
tone of withering contempt.

"Yes; and _I_ undertake to say," cried Joseph, in a tone of triumph,
"that it will be so. And that is what I told the First Consul before."

"And what did I say?" said the Consul, his tone rising with his wrath,
and with his head still above the rim of the bath-tub, looking by
turns quickly from one brother to the other, as if not to lose any
change in the countenance of either.

"You declared," said Joseph, his voice also rising, "you would get
along without the assent of the Chambers; did you not?"

"Exactly," said Bonaparte, concentrated irony in his tone. "That is
what I took the liberty to say to Monsieur Joseph, and what I repeat
here to Citizen Lucien, begging him to give me his opinion about it,
derived from his paternal tenderness for that mighty diplomatic
conquest of his, the treaty of San Ildefonso."

Now I thought this a very unkind thrust at Lucien, for I had heard
his part in the treaty had been most creditable and that the First
Consul had been much pleased with it. I could see that Lucien found it
hard to brook, but he struggled for mastery with himself, and spoke
still gently:

"My brother, my devotion is deep enough to sacrifice everything for
you, except my duty. If I believed, for example, this sale of
Louisiana would be fatal to me alone, I would consent to it to prove
to you my devotion. But it is too unconstitutional."

Bonaparte broke into his sentence with a fit of rasping, sarcastic
laughter, sinking back into the bath-tub almost in a convulsion of
demoniacal mirth.

"Ha, ha, ha! You are drawing it fine. 'For example'!" His words
struggled out in the intervals of his spasms of laughter. "Ha, ha, ha!
'For example'!"--catching his breath. "'Unconstitutional'! That's
droll from you; a good joke--ha, ha!" As his laughter ceased an
expression of ironical and contemptuous rage passed over his face.

"How have I touched your constitution?" he cried. "Answer!"

"I know well," said Lucien, still trying to control himself, "you have
not done so; but you know well that to alienate any possession of the
republic without the consent of the Chambers is unconstitutional."

That last word seemed to drive the Consul beside himself. Once more
his head shot above the top of the bath-tub, and with blazing eyes he
shook his fist at Lucien.

"Clear out!" he shouted. "'Constitution'! 'Unconstitutional'!
'Republic'! Great words--fine phrases! Do you think you are still at
the Club of St. Maximin? We are past that, you had better believe!
Parbleu! You phrase it nobly. 'Unconstitutional'! It becomes you well,
Sir Knight of the Constitution, to talk that way to me. You hadn't the
same respect for the Chambers on the eighteenth Brumaire."

Lucien, roused at last, broke in, in a tone as high as Bonaparte's:

"You well know, my dear brother, that your entry into the Five Hundred
had no warmer opponent than I. No! I was not your accomplice, but the
repairer of the evil which you had done to yourself!--and that at my
own peril, and with some generosity on my part, because we did not
then agree. Not to boast, I may add that no one in Europe, more than
I, has disapproved the sacrilege against the national representation."

Bonaparte's eyes blazed like diamonds.

"Go on--go on!" he thundered. "That's quite too fine a thing to cut
short, Sir Orator of the Clubs! But at the same time take note of
this: that I shall do just as I please; that I detest, without
fearing, your friends the Jacobins!--not one of whom shall remain in
France if, as I hope, things continue to remain in my hands; and that,
in fine, I snap my fingers at you and your 'national representation.'"

"On my side," shouted Lucien, "I do not snap my fingers at you,
Citizen Consul, but I well know what I think about you."

"What do you think about me, Citizen Lucien? Parbleu! I am curious to
know. Out with it!"

"I think, Citizen Consul, that, having sworn to the constitution of
the eighteenth Brumaire, as President of the Council of the Five
Hundred, and seeing you despise it thus, if I were not your brother I
would be your enemy!"

"My enemy!" screamed Bonaparte. "Try it once! That's rather strong!"
And, shaking his fist at Lucien, as he had done once before, "Thou my
enemy!" he screamed again, and then sank back in the water up to his
neck, as if exhausted. In a moment he spoke again in a somewhat
quieter tone:

"Cease this miserable caviling which you and Joseph are at work on
night and day--ridiculous for him, and still less appropriate for you.
It is not from you that I expect lessons in government. Enough! Forget
all you have said about it! I shall contrive to dispense with you. A
precious, well-disposed pair of brothers you are! Please call back the
valet; I must get out of the bath-tub at once."

The valet had come in; Joseph and Lucien, thinking the matter was
dropped, were turning toward the door; the valet was spreading open
the sheet to wrap up his master, when the Consul suddenly returned to
the charge, and thundered in a tone that made Lucien and Joseph start
and turn back quickly, and the valet drop the sheet from his trembling
hands:

"Well, sirs, think what you please about the sale of Louisiana! but
you may both of you put on mourning over this thing--you, Lucien, over
the sale of your province; you, Joseph, because I propose to dispense
with the consent of all persons whatsoever. Do you hear?"

I fairly shivered in my hiding-place at such an outbreak on such a
topic in the presence of a servant. Lucien shrank farther toward the
door, but Joseph, who had held his peace through the quarrel of the
two brothers, stung by the scornful words and manner, and especially
by the contemptuous "Do you hear?" which was like a cutting snapper to
the Consul's lashing wrath, rushed back, exclaiming:

"You will do well, my dear brother, not to lay your plan before the
Chambers, for I swear to you I will put myself, if necessary, at the
head of the opposition which will certainly be made."

There was no reply from Bonaparte but an outburst of loud and sardonic
laughter.

Joseph flushed dark red, and, almost beside himself with rage,
stooping over the figure that lay immersed in the bath, screamed out:

"Laugh! laugh! laugh, then! All the same, I shall do what I say, and,
though I do not like to mount the tribune, this time you'll see me
there!"

At these words, Bonaparte rose in the bath-tub so as to show half his
body out of the water, opaque and frothy with cologne, and pale as his
brother was red, he cried sternly:

"You will not need to play the orator, for I repeat to you that this
debate will not take place, because the plan so unlucky as to be
disapproved by you, conceived by me, negotiated by me, will be
ratified and executed by me--by me alone; do you understand?--by me!"
Then he sank back once more to his neck in the water. Joseph, whose
self-control was all gone, his face aflame, roared:

"Well, general, on my side, I tell you that you and I and all the
family, if you do what you say you will, may get ready to join shortly
those poor innocent devils whom you so legally, so humanely,--above
all, with so much justice,--have had transported to Cayenne!"

This was a terrible home thrust, and I could see Lucien draw hastily
still farther back toward the door, and the valet literally cowered.

"You insolent fellow!" thundered Bonaparte. "I ought--" But I did not
hear the rest of the sentence, for as he spoke he rose quickly from
the water and plunged heavily back, so that the water dashed out in a
flood on the floor. Lucien, who was back by the door, escaped a
wetting; but Joseph received the splash full in his face, and his
clothes were drenched. The valet ran to Joseph's assistance, but had
no more than begun to sponge him off than he fell to the floor in a
fainting fit. The quarrel was calmed at once, and the Bonapartes
good-heartedly ran to the rescue. Joseph hurried to pick him up from
the wet floor; Lucien rang the bell so hard that Rustan and another
servant came running in, frightened; and the First Consul, his eyes
and lips just visible above the rim of the bath-tub, called out
sympathetically:

"Carry off the poor fellow, and take good care of him."

As for me, the excitement was too much for me also. I did not faint,
but my stool, which was none of the steadiest on its three legs,
suddenly tipped from the excess of my emotion, and, though I caught
myself from falling entirely, I yet made what sounded to my horrified
ears a deafening racket. In reality I suppose it was only a slight
scuffling noise, but it was enough to catch the quick ears of the
First Consul and Rustan.

"What was that?" I heard the First Consul say in a startled tone.

"I think, sir, it was some noise in the closet," I heard Rustan reply.
"If Monsieur Joseph will assist in supporting your valet, I will
investigate."

Now was my last hour come. But I was not going to die like a rat in a
trap. I would rush out the door into the public corridor, and, if
necessary, slay the guard and make one bold dash for safety. I drew my
sword from its scabbard to have it in readiness in my hand for
whatever might befall, pulled back the curtain, and came near running
through the body my pretty Félice! She was coming to keep her promise
to me and show me the way out. She did not seem to see my sword, but
the moment she saw me she spoke in great excitement:

"Make haste, Monsieur; there is not a moment to lose. You can escape
through the main corridor. But you must be quick, for the Consul may
finish his bath at any minute, and his brothers retire here to await
him while he dresses."

We were hurrying toward the door as she spoke, but I, feeling as if
the Mameluke were close behind me, seized her hand and dragged her
roughly into the corridor as I whispered:

"Yes, we must be quick, for Rustan is after us!"

With a half-suppressed scream she let go my hand, turned to Gaston,
who was standing at the door motionless as a statue and, to all
appearance, deaf and blind as one also, uttered the one word,
"Rustan!" and fled swiftly down the dark side corridor, leaving me
utterly bewildered. The western sun was flooding the cabinet of the
First Consul when I went into my hiding-place, but the sun had set and
twilight had fallen and the candles had been long lit when I stepped
out into the corridor. The wax tapers set in sconces along the
corridor lighted it but poorly, and I knew not which way to go.

"Run, Monsieur!" cried Gaston, in a terrified whisper, "straight down
the corridor till you come to the grand staircase. And run as if the
devil was after you, for he is!"

That was all I needed,--a word of direction,--and I was off. But
scarcely had I gone a few feet when I heard a great noise and shouting
behind me, and Gaston crying, "Stop thief!" I thought at first he was
turning traitor, now that he had my gold piece with no chance of
gaining another from me. But as I ran the faster, and the noise behind
me did not seem to gain on me, as I feared it might, I concluded he
was making a great outcry to cover his own part in my escape, and
perhaps was hindering the pursuit more than helping it.

Yet when I came to the turn of the grand staircase I thought for a
moment I had also come to the end of my days; for just as I felt sure
I was distancing those behind me, there came running swiftly toward me
from the other end of the dim corridor an officer with sword drawn,
and I saw he would meet me exactly at the head of the grand staircase.
The light from a tall taper fell on his face as he neared the
staircase. It was the Chevalier Le Moyne!

I had but a moment to think. Should I stop to engage with him, I had
no doubt I could unsword him as easily as he had unsworded me in the
dance by Chouteau's Pond; but the delay would bring a score to his
help, and I would be quickly overpowered, if not done to death at
once. Neither did I like to turn my back on that drawn sword as I fled
down the steps, feeling sure it would spit me through the shoulders,
much as Narcisse spitted the wild fowl for roasting at Émigré's
Retreat. But above all I did not wish the chevalier to see my face;
for, even should I make good my escape, Paris would be no safe place
for me should he recognize in the flying "thief" his hated St. Louis
rival.

I pulled my hat low over my eyes, lifted my left arm before my face as
if to shield it from his sword, rushed straight toward him, met him,
as I thought I should, at the top of the staircase, and, with a quick
twist of my foot (a school-boy's trick), sent him sprawling down the
stairs. In three great bounds I had cleared the staircase and his
prostrate body, and like a whirlwind I threw myself upon the sentry at
its foot, who--half dazed by this sudden descent of the chevalier and
myself, one rolling and bumping from step to step, the other leaping
through the air like some great winged creature--was nevertheless in
the act of raising his gun to fire at me. As I hurled my great weight
full upon him, the gun flew from his hands, and his little
dancing-master figure went pirouetting across the terrace into the
darkness beyond, in a vain struggle to recover his balance. I sprang
down the terrace after him, and disappeared in the friendly darkness.

It was time. Starting from the gloom in every direction, armed figures
seemed to spring from the ground, while down the great staircase
behind me clattered, shrieking and shouting in every key, a throng of
officers and soldiers, led by a dark figure gliding swiftly and
silently far in advance, and holding in his upraised hand something
that glittered as it caught the rays from wax tapers. In the very act
of springing down the first terrace, I saw the glittering dagger leave
Rustan's hand, hurled straight at my head, and heard it fall far below
me on the stone parapet of the last terrace.

It was but the work of a moment to run swiftly to the pines and find
Fatima, and lead her out of the thicket. I had not found my seat upon
her back when she bounded away into the dark, straight down the broad
green allée that led toward the Bois de Boulogne and Paris. Then was
there hurrying to horse, and the pounding of many hoofs behind me on
the soft turf, and the wild clamor of confused orders shouted back
and forth, and a fusillade of bullets firing into the dark, if by
chance one might find its mark.

But I no longer felt any fear. Fatima was stretching away beneath me
with the swift and easy motion of a bird, and I did not believe there
was a horse in all France could overtake her. The night was my friend,
too, and a dark night it was; for the clouds had gathered and shut out
even the faint light of stars, and I could not so much as see my hand
before my face. But I could trust Fatima to find her way, and I felt
nothing but a wild exhilaration as we went swinging along in great
strides through the cool, damp night breeze, and I could tell, from
the clamor of voices and pounding of hoofs growing more distant, that
we were gaining on our pursuers.

Out from the soft turf of the park we clattered on to the stony
streets of the little village. Here there were lights, and people
passing to and fro, who stopped and stared at the wild flight of horse
and rider. But none molested until the hallooes and the clatter of
hoofs of those following reached their ears. Then men rushed out from
low taverns, from hut and hovel and respectable houses, brandishing
arms and shouting "Stop thief!" and adding much to the noise and
excitement, but availing nothing to stop the fugitive. Only one young
fellow, an officer by his dress, snatched a gun from a bystander, and
fired with so true an aim that had I not ducked my head I would have
had no head to duck.

But in a few moments we had left the village behind us and were once
more on the unlighted country roads. Faster and faster we flew, by
hedge and stone wall and orchard, whence the night breeze wafted the
scent of blossoming fruit-trees, with ever the sound of hallooes and
hoofs growing fainter in the distance.

Yet not until I had long ceased to catch even the slightest sound of
pursuit, and we were well on our way through the gloomy depths of the
Bois,--night haunt of robbers, suicides, and assassins,--did I draw
rein and give Fatima a chance to breathe. As we ambled along, my
pulses growing quieter as Fatima's breath no longer came in deep-drawn
sobs, but regularly in warm puffs from her wide nostrils, I fell to
thinking over the events of the afternoon.

Now that it was all safely over, and no ill had befallen me, and I had
brought no disgrace upon my uncle, I was elated beyond measure that my
adventure had exceeded my wildest hopes of its success. I had seen the
great Bonaparte, and would henceforth know him as no man outside the
circle of his intimate friends could possibly know him. He would no
longer be, in my eyes, the impossible hero of romance, faultless and
beyond criticism, but a man with more than the ordinary man's meed of
shortcomings as to temper, yet with also a thousand times more than
any ordinary man's power to control men and mold circumstance.
Dictatorial, harsh, intolerant of all opinions that did not coincide
with his own, brooking no interference with his methods or suggestions
as to his duty, he could yet be playful and affectionate with the
brother he loved, sympathetic with a servant whom his own harsh temper
had frightened into fainting, and touched with a soft feeling of
regret for the colony he ruthlessly alienated from the fatherland.

My mind pictured him vividly in every aspect in which I had seen him,
but strongest and most persistent of all was the vision of the figure
in the deep-armed chair, bowed in mournful thought, or with arm
outstretched to my uncle, and voice trembling with suppressed emotion,
saying:

"Let the Louisianians know that we separate ourselves from them with
regret. Let them retain for us sentiments of affection. And may our
common origin, descent, language, and customs perpetuate the
friendship!"




CHAPTER XXII

MR. MONROE ARRIVES!

    "No sun upon an Easter day
      Is half so fine a sight."


It was ten o'clock when I reached Monsieur Marbois's house and found
my aunt anxiously awaiting me. I had to explain the lateness of my
return and the bespattered condition of my garments by telling her I
had lost my way in the Boulogne woods (which was true, for in those
winding roads Fatima did for a time go astray), and such was her
horror at the thought of the perils to which I had been exposed in
that forest of evil repute that she questioned me not at all about my
visit to St. Cloud, for which I was devoutly thankful. She had
expected that my uncle would be detained all night, so that I had no
explanations to make in his behalf.

The dinner-hour was long past, but she insisted on having a hot supper
prepared for me, and though my conscience assured me I deserved to go
to bed hungry, the little fillet of beef with mushrooms, flanked by an
omelet _au gratin_, which Jacques, my aunt's accomplished chef, sent
up to my room piping hot, with a glass of fine old Burgundy, tasted a
little better to me than I ever remembered anything to have tasted
before. _Le petit souper_ was served in my room, because my aunt had
insisted that my wet clothes should be removed (it had begun to rain
long before we reached the streets of Paris) and I should get into a
hot bath at once to prevent, if possible, the cold she was sure I had
contracted on my wet and perilous ride.

Safe in my own comfortable room, warm and refreshed from my bath, with
a delicious supper smoking before me, the memory of my exciting
adventures and the discomforts of the latter part of the ride, lost in
the dismal woods and chilled to the bone by the cold rain, already
began to grow dim and hazy.

The April rain driving against my windows added to my sense of comfort
and security. It had been a good friend to me in at least two
respects: it had washed out every trace of Fatima's hoof-prints, so
that not even Monsieur Fouché's lynx-eyed police could track me when
the morning light should start them on the trail; and it had ruined my
new puce-colored costume. Remembering how I had rejoiced in the
wearing of it that very morning, its destruction might not seem to be
a cause for thankfulness. But I would never dare to wear it again,
lest some one who had seen me at St. Cloud (most of all, the
chevalier) should recognize it; and yet I might have found it
difficult to frame excuses for not wearing it that would satisfy my
aunt's minute and anxious care for me, which extended to seeing that I
wore the proper suit for every occasion.

But I did not feel quite so secure the next morning, when I saw
posted all over the city flaming accounts of an attack upon the First
Consul's life when he was in his bath, frustrated by the vigilance of
his faithful Mameluke. There followed descriptions of the assassin as
given by various witnesses who had had deadly hand-to-hand encounters
with him, no two descriptions agreeing in any particulars, except that
he was of great stature and rode a mysterious steed that bore him away
on the wings of the wind.

There was great excitement throughout all Paris, and there were not
wanting those who hinted at supernatural agencies. Some of those who
had stood gaping at our swift flight through St. Cloud village were
ready to swear that the horse the assassin rode had wings from his
shoulders and his feet, and one poor lout added a tail and a pair of
horns for the rider!

I might have been amused at all this if it had not been for the
Chevalier Le Moyne. It was almost inevitable that I should meet him
some day in the city, and when he should come to know of my presence
in Paris he would at once connect the assassin of great size and his
wonderful horse with the horse and rider that had snatched
Mademoiselle Pelagie from his grasp at Rock Spring. And I was quite
sure, also, that no considerations of gratitude for his life spared
when he was in my power would deter him from handing me over to the
merciless police with the greatest delight, now that I was in his
power.

So it was not with a perfect sense of security that I went about Paris
for the next day or two, and I left Fatima to pine in her stable
rather than to run the risk of suggesting a resemblance to some St.
Cloud villager while yet the apparition of horse and rider was fresh
in his mind.

I did not see my uncle until late on Tuesday afternoon. He had gone
direct to the Treasury office on Monday morning, and had been summoned
to St. Cloud again Monday afternoon to spend the night. I had fully
made up my mind to make a clean breast of it to him when I should see
him, though I dreaded much the just reprimands I knew I should
receive. It was with a very trembling heart, but striving to keep as
courageous a front as possible, that I obeyed a summons to his private
library late Tuesday afternoon. My uncle was sternness itself.

"Sit down, sir," he said as I entered, scarcely returning my greeting.

"If you will permit me, I would prefer to stand until I have made an
explanation and my most heart-felt apologies," I replied, determined
to speak quickly and have it over before my courage should desert me.

"I desire no apologies," returned my uncle, a little less sternly, I
thought, "and I particularly desire that you make me no explanations.
If you had any connection with the mysterious assassin and his horse,
I prefer to be able to say that I know nothing at all about it. I may
have my suspicions that only a daredevil young American could
accomplish such feats of prowess as were ascribed to this
'assassin,'--over-power single-handed all the guards of the palace,
and make good his escape on a steed of supernatural swiftness,--but I
prefer that they should remain suspicions; do you understand?"

I bowed silently, too mortified to make any reply.

"I may have my theories, also," continued my uncle, "as to this young
daredevil's presence in the First Consul's closet, and they would
certainly not be those entertained by the police. Yet it would be a
difficult matter to convince any one, least of all the First Consul
and Fouché, that he could be there for any other purpose than
assassination; and should his identity be discovered, I fear no
influence could be brought to bear strong enough to save his life.
Permit me to add, also, that an insatiable curiosity to be present at
councils of state, such as I have no doubt led this young man to
contrive an entrance into the Consul's private apartments, seems to me
only one degree less culpable than the dastardly designs of an
assassin."

It is impossible to describe the scathing tone with which my uncle
uttered this last sentence. Nor, had I been receiving condemnation
from a just judge for the most dastardly crimes, could I have felt
keener humiliation. I dared not lift my eyes, and every pulse in my
body sent the blood in waves to my already scarlet countenance. I
broke out into a great sweat all over my body as I realized that I had
forever forfeited the respect and confidence of my uncle, whom I
greatly honored and admired. I felt that I must make one desperate
effort to regain a little of what I had lost. Not until that moment
did I dream that I would be suspected of deliberately hiding in that
closet for the purpose of eavesdropping, and not to be allowed to
explain to my uncle that my presence there was by accident was almost
more than I could bear.

"Sir," I began, still not lifting my eyes, "you will not permit me to
tell you anything when I had desired to tell you all, but I beg that
you will allow me to say that it was not a spirit of mean curiosity
that moved that young man, but a spirit of foolish and reckless
adventure, of which he bitterly repents--most of all, because he has
forever forfeited the respect and esteem of him whose good opinion he
most prizes. He will return at once to America, where he will be in no
danger of disgracing those whom he honors so highly. That his visit to
Paris, so kindly planned by you, looked forward to with such delight,
and, until the present moment, enjoyed so keenly, should end in such
failure, is a greater bitterness than you can comprehend; but he feels
that he has richly deserved it for his foolish recklessness. He only
prays that in condemning his actions you will not judge too harshly of
his motives, and that if it is possible to retain affection where
esteem is forfeited, he may still be permitted to retain a little of
yours."

I stood with my head bowed for what seemed to me a very long time
before my uncle spoke. Then he said in the kindest of tones:

"Sit down, my boy; 'tis not quite so bad as that."

I looked up quickly. My uncle was actually smiling, and a great load
rolled off my heart. For whereas a moment before I had thought I could
never look any man in the face again, least of all my uncle, it now
seemed to me that there was almost as much of kindly affection in his
glance as I had ever found there. Yet I would not sit down, as my
uncle so kindly insisted, feeling that I deserved still to retain the
attitude of culprit; seeing which, my uncle softened still more.

"Perhaps I have been too hard on you," he said; "it was a foolish
trick, without doubt, and you deserve some punishment for your
thoughtlessness and recklessness. From what I know of you, I can
charge you with no mean motive, and I am not sure but that at your age
an adventure of such kind would have tempted me greatly. I do not mind
saying, also, that I am rather proud of the way you got yourself out
of your scrape, and I am glad there were no more serious results than
a sprained ankle for the Chevalier Le Moyne and a temporary aberration
of mind for the sentry. I am told you sent him spinning in such
fashion that his brains flew out of the top of his head, and it was
some hours before he got them back again. I hear, too, that he insists
it could have been no less a personage than his Satanic Majesty
himself who with a touch of the hand sent his gun flying when he was
in the very act of firing, and then gave him a twirl that sent him
spinning down the terraces in the dark."

I did not want to laugh, but I could not quite suppress a sheepish
grin at this picture of the dazed sentry, seeing which my uncle threw
back his head and laughed in a way I am sure he learned in America,
for I have never heard the like from these ever-smiling Parisians. I
would have liked to laugh with him, so jolly did it sound, and my
heart growing lighter every moment; but I did not quite dare. In a
minute my uncle stopped as suddenly as he had begun, and was all
seriousness again.

"Well, well, my boy, it's all over," he said, "and I am thankful there
was no bloodshed, and not very sorry that the chevalier must go
limping for a while. I like not that fellow, and I don't understand
why he is hanging around the First Consul so much of late. As to your
going back to America, it would be the worst possible thing to do. You
might as well make a confession at once. No; you must go about exactly
as you have always done, no more, no less--certainly no less. And you
must ride Fatima, but always at a moderate pace, and be sure you make
no exhibitions of her training."

I hardly knew how to thank my uncle, and I told him so. I was indeed
glad not to be sent back to America, and I had no doubt that he was
right about the wisdom of showing myself in public places with Fatima.
I was glad, too, to hear him say that he did not like the Chevalier Le
Moyne. I thought I could have enlightened him as to the chevalier's
reasons for hanging around the First Consul, but my uncle did not know
that I had ever seen Chevalier Le Moyne before, and I could not
explain to him without telling him also about the Comtesse de Baloit;
and--I knew not why, but I shrank greatly from mentioning her name to
my uncle. So I held my peace about the chevalier, and instead made
many promises as to my future conduct, and expressed many regrets for
the past.

I was leaving the room, feeling myself partly at least restored to my
self-respect, when my uncle called me back.

"I've a piece of news that may interest you," he said. "The
President's envoy, Mr. Monroe, has arrived, and I am going to call on
him at Mr. Livingston's this evening. Would you like to go with me?"

I thanked him much, and assured him that I was greatly honored and
pleased at his invitation (which did, indeed, seem to me like a sign
that his confidence in me had returned), and then I hastily left the
room with my head in a whirl. Mr. Monroe had arrived! Then so also had
mademoiselle. I knew of no way to quiet the tumult of my heart and
brain but to go for a ride on Fatima, though in my state of excitement
it was hard work keeping her down to the moderate pace my uncle had
recommended.

I sought the Champs-Élysées, for it was the fashionable hour for
driving, and I hoped that she might be taking the air there with all
the rest of the world, though I hardly thought it probable so soon
after her arrival. I rode slowly up and down the avenue, bowing to
many acquaintances, and looking eagerly at every beautiful woman,
whether I knew her or not, for fear that, seeing her in a strange city
with strange surroundings, I might pass her and not know her.

I was about to give up the quest and go home, when I saw coming toward
me a carriage that had just turned into the avenue from a street
leading to the Faubourg St. Germain. It was more magnificent than any
I had seen, with outriders in gorgeous liveries, but I thought that
hardly accounted for the way people were staring, stopping to look
back when the carriage had passed, and the young men bowing to the
ground. My heart began to beat tumultuously, as if it knew what my
eyes were soon to look upon; yet I am not sure that I really believed
it until it burst upon me, a vision of dazzling loveliness. Had I
forgotten how beautiful she was? or was it that the fine Parisian hat
and dress had added the transcendent touch? Unconsciously I drew
Fatima to one side, so dazzled was I by her radiance; and so she did
not see me, though she was looking eagerly from side to side, trying
to take in at once all this wonderful Paris of which she had heard so
much. She seemed to me like a happy child, eyes and lips smiling with
delight, and I was happy just to be looking at her, though I liked not
the face of the proud and haughty lady who sat beside her, and who, I
feared, would never let her speak to her old St. Louis friend.

The carriage passed, and I, too, looked back, as did all the rest of
the world. Alas! in one moment was my joy turned to bitterness; for,
sitting with his back to the horses and facing Pelagie, a proud smile
as of ownership on his evil but handsome face, sat the Chevalier Le
Moyne!




CHAPTER XXIII

THE CONSUL'S SENTENCE

    "'Tis an old maxim in the schools,
    That flattery's the food of fools;
    Yet now and then your man of wit
    Will condescend to take a bit."


"I wonder what her cousin will say about it? He is her next of kin,
and I suppose will have some authority."

"You mean the young Duc d'Enghien? He is in Baden, you know, and not
in a position to say anything. He is still émigré, and likely to
remain so; for the First Consul distrusts all Bourbon princes."

"Yes; but he might use his authority with his royal cousin, even at a
distance. I had always thought he and the Comte d'Artois had other
plans for the comtesse--that she was to strengthen their house by an
alliance with one of the royal houses of Europe."

"Without doubt that was their plan, but the other side of the house
got ahead of them. It is to prevent just such an alliance, I believe,
that the wily old duchesse is planning this marriage with the
chevalier. He is too far down in the royal ranks to be a dangerous
_parti_."

"Have her estates been restored, do you know?"

"I am not sure, but I think not. I have heard that Bonaparte is making
this marriage a condition. He, too, wants to prevent anything that
will strengthen the power of the Bourbons."

"Oh, then the marriage is assured, and the duchesse has accomplished
her purpose. I am sorry. I wish the comtesse had remained a little
longer in America."

"I am not quite so sure about it. It seems the comtesse herself is
making difficulties. Perhaps, now that she has discovered her true
rank, she does not consider the chevalier sufficiently noble."

"It will make no difference what she thinks or feels, poor child; with
the duchesse and the First Consul both against her, she is as helpless
as a bird in the snares of the fowler."

I was one of the group where this conversation took place, and so,
though I had no part in it, I could not be considered an eavesdropper
(for I had sworn that, rather than listen again to what was not
intended for my hearing, I would go about with my ears stuffed with
wax and be deaf to the whole world). No name had been mentioned, yet I
knew well it was of the Comtesse de Baloit they were speaking, and
every word pierced my soul like a knife.

A stir at the upper end of the grand salon put a stop to the
conversation. Every voice was hushed, and all eyes were turned to
where Madame Bonaparte and the First Consul were making a grand entry.
They were followed by a throng of ladies and gentlemen in attendance,
and the scene could not have been more magnificent had they been king
and queen holding royal court, with lords and ladies in waiting.

I had eyes at first for no one but Madame Bonaparte (since coming to
live at the Tuileries she was no longer called Citizeness Bonaparte),
whom I had not yet seen, this being my first levee, and of whom I had
heard almost as much as of the First Consul. I had heard that she was
not faultlessly beautiful, but of great charm, and I could see at once
that this was true. I do not know why she was not perfectly
beautiful--perhaps her features were a little heavy, her nose a little
long, her cheek-bones a little high, which just prevented her face
from being faultless; but her eyes were large and lustrous and beaming
with kindness, and her hair was soft and dark and abundant and
gathered under a Grecian _filet_ in rich waves and curls, and her skin
was of that creamy whiteness so often seen in creoles, and which sets
off so well dark hair and eyes. I have never seen more beautiful neck
and shoulders and arms; they looked to me more like some of those
beautiful figures in marble in the Louvre Museum, that Bonaparte
brought back with him from Italy, than like real flesh and blood.

She was dressed all in white, and my aunt whispered to me that the
First Consul liked her best in white, and that it was said when Madame
Bonaparte (who was herself fond of more gorgeous costumes) appeared in
white, it was a sign either that she was jealous of her husband and
was trying to win back his straying affections, or that she wanted
some special favor granted. Very likely this was only idle court
gossip, but it might easily be true, for I could hardly think her so
nearly beautiful in any other dress as in that softly falling white,
with high girdle of gold, richly jeweled, and her dark waves of hair
caught in a golden net under the Grecian filet.

The First Consul was very magnificent also; I think he likes dress as
well as his wife. When I had looked well at these two, I had leisure
to look at their retinue; and I looked first at the gentlemen, many of
whom were wearing the brilliant uniforms of army officers. To my
chagrin, my eyes fell almost instantly upon the Chevalier Le Moyne,
wearing the very gorgeous uniform of aide to General Bonaparte. As I
looked at him his eye caught mine, and I saw him start, turn pale, and
then color violently. In a moment he forced a quick smile to his lips
(to his teeth, I had almost said, for there was always something
wolfish to me in his smile), and then he bowed. I returned his bow
very coldly, and his presence there suggesting to me that I might
possibly find Pelagie among the court ladies (for so 'tis the fashion
to call them in jest), I turned to look for her. Yes, she was there,
and, like Madame Bonaparte, all in white. Only Pelagie's white was
filmy and lacy, and fuller and more flowing than madame's, with jewels
shining in its folds and in her waving hair. And whereas Madame
Bonaparte made me think of a Greek goddess, Pelagie reminded me of one
of Mr. Shakspere's fairies, sparkling, graceful, exquisite.

She did not seem to see me, and I could gaze at her no longer, for the
First Consul was already moving about from group to group of the
assembled guests, saying a few words to each, and he was just
approaching our party. He greeted my aunt and uncle and those standing
with us, whom he knew, very affably; then he turned his quick glance
on me, and my uncle presented me.

"Ah," he said, "I was not mistaken. I thought you were from America
when I saw you in church on Easter morning"; and, turning to my uncle,
he added:

"We do not grow such great fair men in France, Citizen Minister."

"No," said my uncle, quickly; "we have small dark great men in France,
Citizen First Consul."

Bonaparte laughed, pleased both with the play on words and my uncle's
compliment, and turned quickly to the next group before I had time to
stammer out how flattered I felt at his remembering me.

The next group happened to be the English ambassador, Lord Whitworth,
and his friends. The Consul had been very affable with us, and I had
discovered that his smile was of rare sweetness and gave great beauty
to his face. But as he turned to Lord Whitworth the smile vanished and
his brows were drawn together in a dark frown. Without the slightest
word of greeting, he spoke to him abruptly and harshly:

"I find your nation wants war again."

Lord Whitworth bowed low, and a dull red slowly spread over his face
as he answered:

"No, sir; we are very desirous of peace."

"You have just finished a war of fifteen years," said Bonaparte again,
in the most offensive of tones, almost a sneer.

The ambassador bit his lip in his effort at self-control, but he
answered with great suavity:

"It is true, sir; and that was fifteen years too long."

"But you want another war of fifteen years," insisted Bonaparte, his
tones every moment harsher and louder, so that every one in that part
of the salon could not help but hear. All conversation ceased, and
every one listened with strained and painful attention. Lord Whitworth
quietly reiterated:

"Pardon me, sir; we are very desirous of peace."

Then, in a tone that rang out like the harsh clang of crossing swords,
Bonaparte cried:

"I must either have Malta or war!"

A shock ran through the whole assembly. No man dared look at his
neighbor. This was nothing less than a declaration of war, and in the
most insulting manner. Whether the proud representative of the
haughtiest nation on the globe would receive such a rude insult to
himself and his country calmly was very doubtful, and we all awaited
Lord Whitworth's reply in trembling silence. With compressed lips and
eyes that flashed in spite of himself, but with a calmness in marked
contrast to Bonaparte's petulance, he replied:

"I am not prepared, sir, to speak on that subject; and I can only
assure you, Citizen First Consul, that we wish for peace."

Bonaparte's frown grew darker, but he said no more; and with a curt
nod, and almost a sneer on his lips, he withdrew at once into a small
cabinet opening into the salon, leaving the rest of his guests without
addressing a word to them, which I was told afterward was very
unusual with him, and showed that his irritation must be very great.

An embarrassed silence followed the First Consul's exit. I had been
looking forward to this levee for weeks, but it promised to be a very
uncomfortable occasion for me as well as for others. I had a great
desire to speak to the British ambassador and assure him of my
sympathy, for none of the Frenchmen so much as dared to look at him,
now that he was in disgrace, lest it be reported to the Consul, and
they themselves fall under suspicion. But I feared it would be
presumption in one so young and unknown, and I dreaded meeting the
haughty British stare with which an Englishman petrifies one he
considers unduly forward. Much to my relief, and indeed to the relief
of the whole company, my uncle turned to him and began at once to talk
in a most animated manner of the doings in the American Congress. That
the relief was general was evident, for conversation was at once
resumed, and with a gaiety that was somewhat feverish, I thought.

It was our turn now to pay our respects to Madame Bonaparte. I had
been eager to meet her until I discovered the presence of Pelagie; but
now it had suddenly become a trying ordeal to walk forward and salute
madame, and perhaps stand talking to her a few moments, conscious that
Pelagie's eyes, if they cared to, might be watching every movement.
Should I be awkward (as I feared I would under such a scrutiny), I was
sure there would be the old mocking light in them I had so often seen,
and dreaded to see, in St. Louis. I resolved not to glance at her
once while I was going through my ordeal, lest she should prove my
undoing; and I tried to think only of the charming woman who smiled
bewitchingly when I made gallant speeches, and who tapped me with her
fan in much the same playful fashion as Mistress Madison had tapped me
with her jeweled snuff-box. Indeed, she reminded me much of the lovely
Washington lady. Both had the same kind way of putting an awkward lad
at his ease, and seeming to like him and be pleased with his speeches,
especially if they savored a little of audacity. But Madame Bonaparte
had not the dash and sparkle of Mistress Madison; instead, she had a
lazy Southern fashion of speech and a wonderfully winning gentleness
that I am not sure was not more charming than the gay brilliancy of
the other.

She kept me talking to her longer than I had expected (or hoped for),
and I began to see significant glances exchanged, while my color was
steadily rising; and I was sure mademoiselle (if she looked at me at
all), noting my shining curls, as yellow as the gold lace on my white
satin court-dress, and my cheeks flaming like any girl's, was saying
to herself with infinite scorn, "Pretty boy!"

I think Madame Bonaparte saw the significant glances also, for she
said presently:

"You must meet the Comtesse de Baloit. She has just returned from your
America, and you will have much in common to talk about."

And so I found myself bowing low over Pelagie's hand, and a moment
later looking straight down into her lovely dark eyes, which looked
straight up at mine with no hint of scorn in their shadowy depths, but
only a great wonder, and a little of something else that set my pulses
to beating like trip-hammers.

"I cannot understand, Monsieur," she said. "I shall have to ask you,
as you asked me in Washington--how did you get here?"

"It was a lodestar drew me," I murmured.

But the warm light in her eyes changed quickly to proud disdain.

"I like not idle gallantries between old friends. Keep those for
Madame Bonaparte. I saw they pleased her greatly, and that you were
much flattered by their reception."

Could the Comtesse de Baloit be jealous? or was it the haughty
Faubourg St. Germain scorning the parvenue of the Tuileries? I hoped
it was the first, but in either case it behooved me to make quick
_amende_.

"Forgive me, Comtesse," I said, as coldly as she had spoken, but in
English, and so low that I hoped no listener could understand even if
he knew the tongue. "It was true, but you could not know how true, and
I have no right to tell you. I know well how great a distance lies
between the proud Lady of France and a simple American gentleman.
Permit me to inform you, Comtesse, that I have been in Paris for more
than a month with my uncle, Monsieur Barbé Marbois. And permit me to
add, as a simple fact in which you may be interested or not, that this
is the moment for which I have lived through that month--the moment
when I should meet again the Comtesse de Baloit."

It had ever been the way with the little Pelagie in America to meet
her hauteur with hauteur, but I was not sure it would work here, and I
trembled inwardly while I spoke so calmly. But it did. Her lids
dropped for a moment, and a soft color stole up to her temples. When
she lifted her eyes again, there was a sweet, shy light in them.

"Monsieur," she said softly, in her pretty English, "why do you call
me Comtesse? Have you forgotten?"

"Is it still to be Mademoiselle?" I cried eagerly, and had hard work
not to pick her up in my arms and run away with her, so adorable was
she in her sweet friendliness.

"Mademoiselle always, unless it is--" But then she broke off suddenly
and turned a rosy red, and added quickly, with something of her old
sauciness: "Never Comtesse, unless I am very, _very_ naughty."

My heart told me what she had meant to say, and I whispered proudly:

"Unless it is some day--Pelagie"; and I know my eyes told her all the
rest I did not dare to say, for she looked away from me quickly, and
I, glancing up, met a black scowl on the face of the chevalier, who, I
knew, must have been watching this little by-play, though he could not
have heard a word, such was the buzz and clatter of conversation about
us. His face cleared instantly, and he stepped quickly forward with a
forced smile and an extended hand.

"Permit me to greet an old friend," he said gaily. "When did you
arrive in Paris?"

It would have been well for me if I could have swallowed my pride
sufficiently to take his proffered hand; but it seemed to me the hand
of a scoundrel and a dastard, and I could not bring myself to touch
it. I pretended not to see it, and I hoped the chevalier and those who
were looking on might be deceived into thinking I did not, as I
answered politely enough:

"The Chevalier Le Moyne is very kind to welcome me so cordially to
Paris."

And then, with a sudden recollection of our last encounter, and hoping
to throw him off the track, I added:

"I have been in Paris but a short time; this is my first visit to the
Tuileries."

But I had not deceived him. The black scowl returned quickly at my
rejection of his proffered hand, and stretching himself to his full
height, so as to be as near my ear as possible, he said between his
teeth:

"It may be your first visit to the Tuileries, Monsieur; but, if I
mistake not, you have been at St. Cloud before. If I had known you
were in Paris I would have been at no loss to account for the
mysterious horse and his rider. I suppose you have brought that
accursed mare with you?"

I may have turned pale, for I saw black ruin yawn before me, but I
answered steadily:

"I do not understand you, Monsieur. I beg you will explain."

"Diable! You understand well enough, Monsieur," he sneered, and
turned and walked away with an exaggerated limp--it had been scarcely
perceptible when he came to greet me.

I had little time to worry over this new peril that threatened, for my
uncle came up to present me to more of the "court ladies," and I did
my best to talk and be merry, while in the background of my thoughts I
was trying to plan some way of escape from the meshes of the net I saw
closing around me. Paris was no longer any place for me. I must tell
my uncle at the first opportunity, and ask his help in getting away as
quietly as possible to America; and at that thought, and that I was
cutting myself off from ever seeing again the Comtesse de Baloit, I
groaned inwardly, and could have cursed the reckless folly that had
brought me to such a pass.

In the midst of my troubled thoughts I saw an officer approach the
Comtesse de Baloit (for, no matter to whom I might be talking, the
Comtesse was ever in my sight), bow low, and apparently deliver some
message to her. I saw her turn to the lady who stood near her (the one
with whom I had seen her driving, whose bearing was so stern and
haughty, and who, I did not doubt, was the duchesse I had heard spoken
of as desiring to marry her to the chevalier), and then the officer
offered an arm to each of them and bore them away to the cabinet to
which the First Consul had withdrawn.

I did not know why this should be cause for anxiety on my part, but
none the less I felt anxious. When, a few minutes later, the same
officer approached the Chevalier Le Moyne and delivered to him also a
message, and the chevalier deliberately turned to me with a smile of
triumph, and then followed the officer to the same cabinet, I felt
doubly anxious. Indeed, so great had my anxiety become that it was
almost impossible for me to keep up longer the semblance of gay
converse with the witty beauties about me.

The chevalier's smile of triumph meant one of two things--either
terrible for me, but one impossible to think of. It meant, "You see,
now I have my chance to denounce you to the First Consul, and I shall
use it"--which would mean nothing less than death for me; or, it
meant, "You see, the First Consul is bringing his influence to bear
upon my marriage with the Comtesse de Baloit; it is all
arranged"--which would mean something far worse than death for me.

I was not surprised, therefore, and I was almost relieved when ten
minutes later the officer touched me on the shoulder.

"The First Consul desires your presence in his cabinet, Monsieur," he
said; and I turned and followed him, conscious that I was followed in
turn by all eyes. There had been no surprise when first the comtesse
and then the chevalier had been summoned, for every one thought he
understood--the First Consul's powerful influence was to be brought to
bear upon a recalcitrant maiden; and while some pitied, none doubted
that the First Consul's influence would avail. But no one knew what
connection I could have with the affair, and the first moment of
startled surprise was followed by a murmur of curious surmises.

Amid that murmur I walked as one who goes to his execution; for from
the moment the officer touched me upon the shoulder I had known what
the chevalier's smile of triumph meant, and I knew that I was on my
way to be accused and condemned, and, for aught I knew, marched off to
instant execution under the eyes of the Comtesse de Baloit. As I
passed Monsieur Marbois, his eyes, filled with a startled alarm, met
mine. I tried to reassure him with a smile, but I fear it was sorry
work, for a sudden rush of remembrance of all his goodness to me
overwhelmed me and came near to unmanning me.

Just inside the door of the cabinet the officer stopped, and motioned
to me also to stay my steps. On whatever errand I had been sent for,
it was evident that neither the First Consul nor any one else was
quite ready for me. The Consul was seated, while on one side of him
stood the chevalier, and on the other the duchesse and the Comtesse de
Baloit; and that any man should remain seated in the presence of the
comtesse filled me at once with a blind rage that ill prepared me to
play my part in what was about to follow. The attitude of the three
struck me at once as significant: the duchesse complacent, with almost
a smile upon her haughty features, and to the best of her ability
beaming upon the First Consul; the chevalier eager, obsequious,
fawning; the comtesse her head held proudly up, a little frown between
her brows, her eyes flashing; impatience, annoyance, disdain expressed
in every feature. The First Consul was speaking as we entered, and I
thought his tones were meant to be persuasive; they were less rasping
than I had often heard them.

"The estates are very great, Mademoiselle." (And again I was indignant
that he should address her as Mademoiselle, a title which I felt
belonged to no man to use but to me. I knew, of course, that it was
but the common usage,--that titles were not permitted in republican
France,--but none the less I was angry.) "Your father was almost the
richest man in France," he was saying. "Should I restore these estates
to you, I must have some guaranty that they will be used for the
welfare of the republic, and not against it. Citizen Le Moyne is such
a guaranty. His sword is already pledged to the service of the
republic, and to the Citizeness Le Moyne I will restore all the
estates of her father."

A bright red spot burned in each of Pelagie's cheeks. I know not what
she might have said (though she looked not as if she would meekly
yield assent to this powerful plea), for at that moment the First
Consul discovered our entrance and turned to the chevalier.

"Citizen Le Moyne," he said, "you asked us to send for this young man.
He is here. What has the nephew of Monsieur Marbois to do with this
matter?"

A malicious smile played round the chevalier's lips.

"If you remember, Citizen First Consul," he said "I told you that at
one time mademoiselle was not averse to my suit--that in all
probability I would have won her hand in St. Louis, but that her mind
was poisoned against me by malicious insinuations and fabrications,
the work of a rival who desired to win her for himself?"

The chevalier waited for the Consul's reply, and he nodded curtly.

"Well?"

"Citizen First Consul, that rival is the nephew of Minister Marbois,
and I have brought him here to ask him to renounce publicly all claims
to the hand of the Citizeness de Baloit."

I saw a flash in the beautiful eyes, and a proud toss of the little
head that I well knew meant, "He has no claim," and I hastened to
speak.

"Sire," I said quickly, and then stopped in confusion. How could I
have made such an egregious blunder as to address the first citizen of
the republic by a royal title? Yet it was a natural enough mistake,
for no Czar or Sultan or Grand Mogul was ever a more autocratic ruler
than he, or made men tremble more at his nod. I thought I had no doubt
ruined my cause in the very outset, for a dark frown gathered between
the Consul's brows, but it quickly disappeared.

"I believe you spoke innocently, young man," he said, with a smile of
rare sweetness. "Speak on!"

"Pardon, Citizen First Consul," I said--"it was indeed an innocent
mistake"; and then I added with a sudden impulse of audacity, "but a
very natural one."

The Consul answered me only with his flashing smile, that transfigured
his face, and I hurried on:

"I wish to say, sir, that I have no claim to the hand of Mademoiselle
la Comtesse." I saw from the tail of my eye her head take a prouder
pose and her lips curl scornfully as she perceived that I was tamely
renouncing my "claim" at the chevalier's bidding; but I went calmly
on: "I have always known that there was a great gulf fixed between the
proud Lady of France of royal blood and a simple American gentleman.
Mademoiselle la Comtesse has never given me any reason to hope that
that gulf could be crossed, but," and I turned and looked straight at
the chevalier,--and if my head was flung back too proudly and my eyes
flashed too fiercely and my voice rang out too defiantly, it was from
no lack of respect to the great Bonaparte, but because my soul was
seething with wrath and indignation against that cowardly villain "but
should Mademoiselle la Comtesse give me the faintest hope that the
honest love of an honest American heart could weigh with her against
lands and titles, that the devotion of a lifetime to her every thought
and desire could hope to win her love, then no argument the Chevalier
Le Moyne could bring to bear would have a feather's weight with me. I
would renounce my 'claim to her hand' only with my life!"

The First Consul's eyes were smiling as I ceased speaking; there was
no frown on his brow. The duchesse looked aghast, as if it were
inconceivable blasphemy that I should think of aspiring to the
comtesse, and the chevalier's face was dark, with an ugly sneer
distorting his lips. But I cared little how Consul or duchesse or
chevalier took my speech: I cared only for what mademoiselle might
think. I glanced quickly at her. Her head was drooping, her long
lashes were sweeping her cheek, her face was rosy red, and a
half-smile was playing about her mouth. My heart beat high with
exultant joy. I turned proudly to the chevalier and awaited the
thunderbolt I knew was sure to fall. He, too, had seen mademoiselle's
soft and drooping aspect, and the sight had lashed him to fury. But
before he had a chance to speak, the First Consul himself spoke with
good-natured raillery:

"I think, Citizen Le Moyne, your golden-haired giant makes a very good
plea for himself. Suppose I offer him a position on my staff and make
a Frenchman of him, and then let the Citizeness de Baloit choose
between you? Perhaps her estates would be as safe in his hands as in
yours."

Had the First Consul uttered his speech with the purpose of lashing
the chevalier to fury and goading him to still greater venom against
me, he could have taken no better course to accomplish it.

"Safe!" he hissed. "Safe in the hands of an assassin! You would give
mademoiselle and her estates to the man who hid in your closet to
attempt your life in your bath! Regardez! the coward--the sneak--the
villain! When your Mameluke discovers him he flees. I run to your
defense. Does he meet me with his sword like an honorable gentleman?
No! he trips me with the foot like a school-boy, and throws me down
the stair, to be the laughing-stock of my fellow-officers! Because he
is a giant, he falls upon your sentry of small stature and hurls him
down the terraces! He calls to his trick horse,--trained in the
circus, I do not doubt,--and rides away in the dark, and thinks no one
will ever know! But _I_ know. I have seen his tricks in America. He
is a clown--a mountebank! No gentleman would touch his hand!"

The chevalier's voice had grown shriller and higher with each word,
till he ended in a scream, tearing his hair, rushing up and down the
cabinet in his fury, and pointing every epithet with a long finger
extended toward me. I could have smiled at such childish rage but that
it was too serious a matter to me for smiling. Mademoiselle's eyes
were wide with terror and amaze, and the Consul's brow grew darker
with every word of the chevalier's.

"Officer, call the guard!" he said in his rasping voice, as soon as
the chevalier gave him a chance to speak, and I knew my doom was
sealed.

But mademoiselle sprang forward, one arm outstretched to stay the
officer, and one extended toward the Consul in supplication.

"No, no, officer, not yet!" she cried, and then to Bonaparte:

"Oh, Citizen Consul, it is all a terrible mistake! I know him well. He
could not be guilty of so dreadful a crime! He could not do anything
mean or low or dishonorable. There is no gentleman in the world more
generous and noble! And the man who denounces him owes his life to
him!"

"Look at him, Mademoiselle," said the Consul, harshly, "and see if his
looks do not confess him the culprit."

I knew that I must look the very picture of conscious guilt, for every
word mademoiselle had uttered had pierced me like a two-edged sword. I
might have braved the chevalier's accusations and the First Consul's
suspicions (for, after all, neither had any evidence against me), but
I could not bear her generous confidence in me, feeling that I had so
miserably forfeited my right to it by indulging in a foolish boyish
prank. I did not raise my head (where it had sunk in shame), but by
reason of being so much taller I yet could see her turn toward me, see
her look of implicit trust change slowly to doubt and fear. Then I
heard her utter one low cry, "Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!" and turn away.
In a moment my resolve was taken. I would make a clean breast of it;
she should not think me worse than I was. I lifted my head.

"Mademoiselle!" I cried, and she turned quickly toward me and looked
straight into my eyes with a look that was hard to bear. "I am guilty
Mademoiselle! I am the man who was in the First Consul's closet, and
who escaped on Fatima's back."

The Consul made a motion toward the officer, but I turned to him
quickly.

"I beg you, sire,"--and this time I did not know that I had said it,
not until long afterward, when one of those who heard told me of
it,--"that you will not send your officer for the guard until I have
made my confession; then you can send for it, and I will go away
quietly, without resistance."

"Very well, officer; you can wait," said Bonaparte, still harshly. The
rest of my confession I addressed directly to him.

"I am no clown, mountebank, or circus rider in my own country, sir, as
the Chevalier Le Moyne would have you believe; I am the son of a
Philadelphia gentleman, and the nephew of Madame Marbois.
Unfortunately, life in my native land has bred in me a spirit of
adventure that has many times been near my undoing. It has also bred
in me a great love for the life of a soldier, and a great admiration
for the famous soldiers of history. When I accompanied my uncle to St.
Cloud, and knew that he was summoned there to meet the First Consul, I
was seized with a desire to enter the palace and roam through the
rooms where the First Consul dwelt. When I found admission was not
permitted I thought it would be a fine adventure to find my way in
without permission. It was a boy's wild spirit of daring, and a boy's
almost idolatrous hero-worship that led me into such a scrape."

The Consul interrupted me here, but I thought his tones a little less
harsh than before:

"Did your uncle know of your intention to enter the palace?"

"Most certainly not, Citizen First Consul," I answered, "else had I
never accomplished it."

"Then how did you find your way to my closet?"

"I followed a servant through some winding corridors, but an officer
suddenly appeared. I fled, opened the first door I came to, saw myself
in a dressing-room, opened another, and found myself in the closet
connecting with your cabinet."

All of which was literally true, and implicated neither Gaston nor
Félice, I hoped. The Consul signed to me to go on with my story.

"All would have been well, and I should have slipped out the way I
came, had not the First Consul decided to take a bath."

I was watching my auditor narrowly as I talked, for I felt my life
depended upon his change of mood, and I thought I saw here the least
glimmer of a twinkle in his eye; but if it was there it was banished
instantly, and his face was as set and stern as before.

"I have never heard any words, your"--I started to say "your Majesty,"
caught myself, and stumbled miserably--"your--your--Excellency, that
filled me with greater dismay than these: 'Tell my valet to prepare my
bath'!"

Again I thought I caught that fleeting twinkle of the eye, but could
not be sure.

"There was no hope for me," I went on, "but to wait for the First
Consul to finish his bath; but, unfortunately for me, he is fonder of
his bath than most men, and I stood in that dark closet in an agony of
suspense, and revolving in my mind every conceivable plan of escape,
for what seemed to me many long hours. All might still have been
well,--for in the nature of things even the First Consul's bath must
come to an end sometime,--had I not made a slight noise which the
quick ears of the Consul and the Mameluke heard. I was discovered,
and there was nothing for me to do but to flee through the
audience-chamber and the main corridor, surprising the guard at the
door, who, in his turn, raised the whole palace in pursuit.

"I was distancing my pursuers, and should have gotten out of the
palace without difficulty, but that at the head of the grand staircase
I met the Chevalier Le Moyne, running from the opposite end of the
corridor. I would not under ordinary circumstances refuse a sword
encounter with the chevalier (though I would prefer an opponent with a
nicer sense of honor), but there was no time for such an encounter now
if I would not have the whole palace upon me, and, besides, it was
most important that the chevalier should not recognize me. There was
nothing to do but to hide my face with my arm as if shielding it from
his sword, and trip him up, as he says, school-boy fashion. I am sorry
that it should have hurt his self-esteem to be vanquished by such a
youthful trick, and regret still more that he should have suffered in
the estimation of his fellow-officers thereby."

This time the twinkle in the Consul's eye was unmistakable, and I
could hear the chevalier grinding his teeth with rage.

"As for your sentry," I continued, "he was aiming his gun to fire at
me. There was no time for ceremony. I could have spitted him upon my
sword, which was in my hand, and it might have been more respectful;
but I dislike bloodshed, unless it is absolutely unavoidable, and so I
threw up his gun with my arm, and sent him spinning after it in the
dark. I had left my mare Fatima--who is no trick horse, but a young
Arabian trained by myself from colthood to do my bidding--in a pine
thicket close by. I was on her back and away just in time to escape
your mounted guards, who thundered out the gates of the park scarce
twenty paces behind me. Had Fatima been less swift I had not been
here to tell the tale. I hope the First Consul will believe me when I
say I have suffered much from remorse for my rash and thoughtless act.
It was a wild spirit of adventure that led me into it, but I see
clearly now that does not in the least excuse it, and I am ready to
atone for it in any way you decree."

The eye of the First Consul, clear, piercing, heart-reading, had been
upon me through the whole of this recital; but I, feeling that I was
keeping nothing back (save only Gaston and Félice), and being nerved
up to meet whatever fate should befall, bore its scrutiny well. He was
silent for a moment after I had finished speaking, and my heart sank
steadily down, for life looked very bright to me and I began to be
very sure I had forfeited it by my foolishness. Suddenly the Consul
spoke, but it was not to me nor to the chevalier; he turned to
Pelagie.

"Mademoiselle, that was a boyish escapade, certainly, and it was a
very pretty boy that contrived it. What do you think would be suitable
punishment for such a crime? You shall be the arbiter of his fate."

Mademoiselle gave me one fleeting glance, saucy merriment dancing in
her eye; then she turned to Bonaparte, and, curtsying low, she said
with pretty archness:

"Citizen First Consul, I know him well, and I know that only death
could be a greater punishment to him than to be called a 'pretty boy'!
Do you not think his crime is atoned for?"

Bonaparte's wonderful smile lighted his face and fell on mademoiselle
with almost too great sweetness, I thought.

"It is as you say, Mademoiselle," he replied. "Officer, you need not
call the guard."

But I, suddenly relieved from the fear of death, stood there scarlet
with confusion, head drooping, and ready to sink through the floor
with shame, while I mentally anathematized my yellow curls and rosy
cheeks and blue eyes, and most of all my _domtiferous_ vanity that had
led me to array myself in shining white satin and glittering gold
lace, that I was sure made me look fairer and rosier and more than
ever like a big blond baby.




CHAPTER XXIV

A NEW CHEVALIER OF FRANCE

    "Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim
      At objects in an airy height."


"Officer," said Bonaparte, in his iciest tones, "conduct Citizeness
Capet and Citizen Le Moyne back to the salon. I have something to say
to the others that it will not be necessary for them to hear. You need
not return yourself until I ring for you."

Madame la Duchesse glared at the little figure lazily and haughtily
reclining at ease in the deep-armed chair while we all stood meekly
before him. I think for a moment she was tempted to spring upon him
and tear his eyes out. That the parvenu ruler of the republic should
so address a member not only of the old nobility but the old royalty,
was more than she could bear. A cool stare from the fathomless eyes of
the Consul made her think better of it; she turned and accompanied the
chevalier (who was nigh to foaming at the mouth with ill-suppressed
rage) back to the salon.

As they left the cabinet, conducted in state by the officer, Bonaparte
turned to Pelagie.

"Mademoiselle la Comtesse," he said in tones whose suavity were in
marked contrast to the coldness of his last speech, "will you not be
seated? I am sorry to have kept you standing so long. I have asked you
to wait while I spoke to this young man, because I have something more
to say to you on the subject we were discussing. I beg, therefore, you
will make yourself perfectly comfortable while you wait."

I think Pelagie was of half a mind to decline the Consul's courtesy,
for she hesitated a moment, and I saw a dangerous spark leap into his
eyes. I do not know whether she saw it also, or whether she simply
decided it was better to be as complaisant as possible in small
matters, since she might have to be recalcitrant in great ones. She
sat down, apparently cool and collected, but in the chair most distant
from the First Consul. I had noted the change in the form of his
address, and wondered at it; but I believe he liked titles, and was
glad to use them when there were no jealous ears about to find fault
with his lapse from republican simplicity. He did not ask me to sit
down, but turned to me as soon as Pelagie had taken her seat, and
began abruptly:

"I made a proposition a few moments ago in jest; I now make it in
earnest: I offer you a position on my staff as military aide. The
young man who has the skill to extricate himself from such an escapade
as yours is of the stuff I would like to use in my service, and when
he adds to his other qualities the ability to tell his story so
discreetly that it is impossible to guess whether or not he has heard
anything of state councils and family quarrels, he is of still greater
value in such a capacity."

I was overwhelmed. Lifted from the depths of disgrace and fear of
death to the pinnacle of my day-dreams realized (for it had ever been
my fondest dream to be a soldier of fortune, and to serve under the
great Bonaparte--one that I had hardly dared to confess to myself) was
almost more than brain could stand. More than that, to hear such words
of commendation from the great soldier, when I had expected severest
censure, set heart throbbing and head whirling. I could only stammer
out:

"It would be the greatest joy and glory of my life to serve under the
First Consul! I shall have to get my uncle's permission; may I defer
my answer until I have an opportunity to consult him?"

The Consul frowned quickly; I have no doubt he was used to receiving
only instant acceptances of his offers. But in a moment his
countenance cleared, and he answered, pleasantly enough:

"Very well; I shall expect to hear from you the day after to-morrow";
and with a slight nod from him I understood myself dismissed.

Somehow I liked not leaving Pelagie there alone with him, but there
was no alternative. I thought, too, as I made my low bow to her in
leaving the room, that her eyes met mine with a look of appeal in
their dark depths it was hard to withstand. I determined to take my
station in the salon near the cabinet door, so that if she should need
me I would be near at hand.

And thus it happened that a few minutes later I heard the Consul's
bell ring violently, saw the officer on duty enter the cabinet
hastily, and immediately return, conducting Pelagie. Her eyes were
shining with a fierce light, a bright spot was burning in either
cheek, and her head was held so high and she was looking so straight
forward with an unseeing gaze that she did not see me as she passed. I
saw her take her place among the court ladies and Madame Bonaparte
look at her with cold displeasure. Being no longer on sentry duty, I
joined my aunt, and she whispered to me:

"The pretty Comtesse is in trouble. Madame will not easily forgive her
husband spending ten minutes alone with her in his cabinet."

My soul raged within me, for I could see that others also were
whispering about her, and for a moment I was ready to challenge all
the world, including the great Bonaparte himself, who (though, I
believed, innocently) had given occasion for the whisperings. Of
course I knew that his interview with Pelagie had been entirely in
behalf of the chevalier, but others did not seem to be so certain of
it, and especially did Madame Bonaparte's attitude toward her give
rise to unpleasant comment. I longed eagerly for a word with Pelagie
herself, but I saw no chance of obtaining it. Yet fortune favored me,
for later in the evening, when they were preparing the piquet-tables,
I found myself placed next to her; and once, when excitement over some
disputed point in the game was running high, and the din of contending
voices made a friendly cover for a low-toned speech, I managed to say
to her:

"You look troubled, Mademoiselle; is there any way in which I can be
of service to you?"

She smiled up at me with a look of trust that touched me greatly, and
said hurriedly, mentioning no names (which might have been dangerous):

"I wanted this chance to tell you. He insisted on that marriage, and
when I told him I would never marry a man who had denounced and
betrayed in such cowardly fashion the man to whom he owed his life, he
was very rude to me."

"Rude to you!" I whispered fiercely. "Then I cannot take service under
him."

But she looked greatly alarmed when I said that, and whispered
eagerly:

"No, no, Monsieur; do not say that! Take the place, if you can, for
your own sake,"--and then she hesitated a moment,--"and for mine."

There was no chance for another word; the game was breaking up, and
the old duchess came and carried her off with a glare of distrust and
suspicion at me, and I had no doubt she had been watching our
whispered consultation.

There was no chance, either, to tell my uncle of my interview with the
Consul; for I could say nothing before my aunt without entering into
explanations that I did not want to make to her, and I knew the fact
of my returning to the salon instead of being hurried off to prison
had quieted his alarms. The hour was late, and we said good night to
each other in the corridors when we returned home, going at once to
our rooms.

I hurried down-stairs the next morning, hoping to find my uncle taking
his morning coffee in the garden, as he often did in this lovely
spring weather; but I had overslept, and he was already gone. Late in
the afternoon I sought him in his library, for I knew my answer to the
First Consul must be decided upon at once, and I was anxious to tell
him all about my interview. He answered my knock by a quick "Enter,
enter!" and I found him brimming over with gay good humor and
excitement.

"You are just in time, my boy," he cried. "I am expecting the American
ambassadors every moment, and, if they offer no objection, you may
stay and see how history is made. We are to sign the treaty that is to
give the First Consul the munitions of war, and that will place
America in the very front rank of nations."

My own affairs seemed of small moment beside such stupendous ones, and
I saw that my uncle had entirely forgotten his alarm of the evening
before. I was myself very greatly excited, for this was the moment to
which I had been looking for nearly a year, though the realization
about to be consummated was far exceeding my wildest fancies.

The two gentlemen were announced a moment later, and they both greeted
me cordially, for they knew my family at home and I had called on them
several times in Paris. Nor did my uncle have to prefer a request that
I should be permitted to be a witness of the signing of the treaty.
Mr. Livingston himself suggested that I be invited to remain, and, the
others assenting most cordially, I thanked them heartily for their
courtesy, and retired to a seat in the background, where I might not
intrude upon their deliberations.

The document seemed long, and in fact, as I understood it, there were
three documents--one which they called the treaty, and two others they
called "conventions." They read them all over carefully several times
before signing, and I heard the article read that I had seen the First
Consul write, and discovered that one convention was to determine in
what manner the sixty million francs were to be paid to France, and
the other convention was concerned with the twenty million francs to
be paid by the United States to such of its citizens as held claims
against France.

There seemed to be some little discussions on a few minor points which
were easily settled, and then very solemnly they each signed the three
documents, Mr. Livingston writing his name first, then Mr. Monroe, and
then my uncle. When this was done, the three gentlemen, as by a common
impulse, rose to their feet and shook hands, their faces shining with
a solemn light which I believe had nothing to do with self-glory, but
with an unselfish joy at having accomplished an act that would bring
honor and benefit to two great nations and to future generations. I,
in my corner, was almost as proud as they, and quite as happy (when I
thought of the honor that was to come to my country, and especially
the blessings to that great West I was so interested in), and for the
first time in my life I felt it might be almost finer to accomplish
such great things by statesmanship and a stroke of the pen than to
win fame and glory by the sword. Then I saw that Mr. Livingston was
beginning to speak. He stood up straight and tall and fine-looking,
and his manner was very impressive and full of dignity and a kind of
solemn joy. I was very proud of him as a representative of my country,
and each word that he spoke made me prouder and happier.

"We have lived long," he began, "but this is the noblest work of our
whole lives. The treaty which we have just signed has not been
obtained by art or dictated by force; equally advantageous to the two
contracting parties, it will change vast solitudes into flourishing
districts. From this day the United States take their place among the
powers of the first rank. The English lose all exclusive influence in
the affairs of America. Thus one of the principal causes of European
rivalries and animosities is about to cease. The instruments we have
just signed will cause no tears to be shed; they prepare ages of
happiness for innumerable generations of human creatures. The
Mississippi and Missouri will see them succeed one another, and
multiply, truly worthy of the regard and care of Providence, in the
bosom of equality, under just laws, freed from the errors of
superstition and the scourge of bad government."

My uncle and Mr. Monroe seemed greatly impressed by his words (as,
indeed, no one who heard them could help being); and then there was
half an hour of pleasant talk, in which the three gentlemen kindly
included me. As the American ambassadors took their leave, my uncle
turned to me.

[Illustration: The Signing of the Louisiana Purchase Treaty by
Marbois, Livingston, and Monroe]

"Well, my boy," he said, his kind face beaming, "we have settled the
affairs of two great nations most satisfactorily; now we will settle
yours. What did the First Consul want of you last evening?"

I had made up my mind to tell my uncle all about my acquaintance with
the Comtesse de Baloit and the Chevalier Le Moyne, if he had time to
listen,--for otherwise it would be difficult to explain my interview
with the Consul, or how I happened to be summoned to his
presence,--and I asked him if he had time to hear a long story. He
replied that he considered he had accomplished enough for one day, and
he should do nothing more, until dinner at least; he might possibly be
summoned to an interview with the First Consul at the Tuileries later
in the evening.

He scarcely interrupted me through my long recital, unless an
occasional heavy scowl at some special perfidy of the chevalier's
could be called an interruption. He chuckled with delight when I told
how I tripped up the chevalier on the grand staircase of St. Cloud,
and uttered a vigorous "Diable!" when he heard how I came to be
summoned before the First Consul. He listened almost breathlessly to
my account of my interview with the Consul, and drew a great sigh of
relief as I finished.

"Why, my lad," he said, "you have been having great experiences! I
wonder you could forget them sufficiently to be so deeply interested,
as you seemed to be, in the doings of three old diplomats."

I assured him that what the three diplomats had just accomplished was
of greater interest to me than any of my own affairs could possibly
be. In all my story I had touched as lightly as I could on the
Comtesse de Baloit, hoping that my uncle would not discover that I had
any special interest in that direction; but he was too astute a reader
of human nature to be easily misled.

"That is all very well," he said, in reply to my assurance of a deeper
interest in affairs of state than in my own; "I do not doubt for a
moment that you believe what you say, and I could easily believe it,
too, if it were not for the Comtesse de Baloit. Such affairs are more
engrossing than all others in the world, if I remember my own youthful
days aright. But I had no idea the wind sat in that quarter, as your
Mr. Shakspere would say. Have you any idea how high you are aspiring?
I know you Americans stop at nothing; but, my dear boy, you might as
well aspire to the hand of the Princess Charlotte of England!"

"I am aspiring to the hand of no one, sir," I answered rather hotly,
for I knew so well how hopeless any dreams of mine might be that I
liked not to have any one think I was cherishing false hopes.
"Whatever my feeling toward the Comtesse may be, I have never had the
slightest hope. If Citizeness Capet, as the First Consul calls her,
does not succeed in marrying the comtesse to the Chevalier Le Moyne,
then her cousins the Comte d'Arbois and the Duc d'Enghien will
probably marry her into one of the reigning houses of Europe.
Mademoiselle la Comtesse has shown me some kindness, but only such as
any right-feeling young maiden would show to one who has been able to
do her some little service, and I am not one to presume upon her
grateful feeling."

My uncle looked at me for a moment with a little frown between his
brows, as if he were trying to solve some perplexing question, and
then the frown cleared away and he spoke smilingly:

"Well, well, we will dismiss the Comtesse; that is too difficult a
problem. And now for what is, after all, a question of more practical
importance. Do you want to accept this offer of the First Consul's?"

"Very much, sir," I answered eagerly.

"I doubt whether I have any right to give you permission to do so,"
responded my uncle; "but this much authority I will assume. If the
First Consul is willing to take you subject to the commands of your
father when we can hear from him, I will give my permission, and I
will write to your father by the first packet. It will be ten or
twelve weeks before we can possibly hear from him, and it may be much
longer. But I am rather relieved that you desire to accept the First
Consul's offer. He does not like his favors rejected, and he is quite
capable of holding me responsible for having influenced you, should
you decline."

The First Consul was willing to take me on those conditions (I think
he felt no doubt of my father's answer; such confidence had he in the
magnetism of his own name that he believed any man would feel proud to
have his son serve under him), and a very few days saw me arrayed in
my glittering uniform and spending every spare moment, when I was off
duty, riding up and down the Champs-Élysées in the hope not so much of
seeing the Comtesse de Baloit as of being seen by her. For I felt that
half the joy I had in my gorgeous trappings would be gone if she could
not see them and admire them too.

And as my sword clanked and my spurs jingled while Fatima pranced and
curveted under me in the bright spring weather, my heart sang an
accompaniment to them.

Could it be possible that the great Bonaparte might turn the rest of
his speech from jest to earnest? Would he, perhaps, now that he had
made me his aide, trust her to me as willingly as to the chevalier?

And higher still sang my heart as Fatima, in answer to my excited
touch, leaped and bounded along the avenue, and I remembered that
night upon _La Belle Rivière_ when mademoiselle had wished that I was
a chevalier of France. Was I not one now in fact, if not in name?




CHAPTER XXV

THE COMTESSE DE BALOIT SENDS FOR HER HUNTER

     "Take a straw and throw it into the air; you may see by that
     which way the wind is."


All my riding up and down the Champs-Élysées was like to have been for
naught. We had received orders to be in readiness to start on the
morrow for Belgium, where Bonaparte was to make his headquarters while
preparing for war with England, and still I had not seen the comtesse,
and she had not seen my beautiful regimentals.

My packing was done, my last arrangements made, most of my good-bys
said; there was nothing left to do but to take my last ride down the
avenue. And this time not in vain! There she sat in her gorgeous coach
of scarlet and gold with the footmen and coachmen in dazzling liveries
of gold lace and scarlet plush, and beside her, not the stern duchesse
this time, but a younger woman who looked as if she might be a less
formidable guardian.

She saw me, though for a moment she did not recognize me in my new and
gaudy plumage. When she did, her eager look of welcome more than
repaid me for my fruitless rides up and down the avenue. She signaled
to her coachman to stop, and with a pretty little peremptory gesture
summoned me to her side. She seemed to have no fear of the lady beside
her, and no doubt she was merely a paid companion, for she ignored her
entirely, or noticed her presence only by using English when she had
anything of serious import to say.

"'Tis Fatima I wish to see, sir," she said as I drew up by her coach,
my hat tucked under my arm. She put out her little hand and gently
stroked the white star on Fatima's forehead, and the mare whinnied
softly and rubbed her nose against the little gloved hand as if to
say, "I remember you well; those were famous rides we had in old St.
Louis."

"And 'tis you I wish to see," I responded boldly. "I have been looking
for you for many days; why have you deserted the Champs-Élysées?"

She looked up at me quickly, as if pleased with the audacity of the
first part of my speech, but as I finished with my question she
dropped her eyes and seemed embarrassed. In a moment she spoke in a
low, constrained voice, and in English:

"My aunt and I have had misunderstandings. She wishes me to appear in
public with a man I do not like. In Paris that means fiancé. I will
stay in my hôtel with headaches rather than ride on the avenue beside
him!" with sudden fire. Then she added with an attempt at her old
lightness:

"But I must drive on. Should it be reported to madame that I stopped
to talk to Monsieur, I might have to suffer for it."

A sudden horror seized me.

"Mademoiselle, they do not use force?" I cried. "You are not held a
prisoner?"

"No--not yet," she said slowly.

"Mademoiselle," I said, looking steadily into her eyes, "I have tried
to see you to say good-by; I leave Paris to-morrow."

I saw her go suddenly white, but in a moment she spoke very calmly,
and in French:

"Do you go back to America, Monsieur?"

"No, to Belgium with the First Consul: to Antwerp, I believe."

I spoke also in French, but added in English:

"Mademoiselle, if you need me, I will not go to Belgium; I will
resign."

She shook her head.

"No; I am sorry you are going, but I would not have you resign. The
First Consul is vindictive, they say; should you reject his favors, he
may remember your St. Cloud offense."

"I care not for that!" And then I added moodily, "They will compel you
to marry him."

She threw up her head in much the same fashion Fatima throws up hers
when she scents conflict in the distance.

"They cannot coerce me!" she said proudly, and then she added, half
playfully, half defiantly:

"They tell me I have royal blood; they shall see I know how to use my
royal prerogative." She held out her hand to me and spoke again in
French:

"Good-by, Monsieur, and bon voyage!"

I bent low over her hand.

"Let me stay, Mademoiselle," I whispered.

"What! and lose your beautiful uniform! 'Tis too severe a test of
friendship. No, no, Monsieur," with the old mocking laugh. But before
I had time to resent her teasing speech, her mood had changed. She
leaned far out of the carriage and threw her beautiful arm over
Fatima's arching neck.

"Good-by, Fatima," she cried--"dear, dear Fatima!" And as Fatima, in
answer to her caress, drew closer to her, she dropped a light kiss on
her soft muzzle, leaned back in her carriage with a signal to the
coachman, and rolled away.

       *       *       *       *       *

The weeks that followed were in some respects the strangest weeks of
my life, and often in memory they return to me as a confused dream.
War had been declared with England, and in Antwerp, in Dunkirk, on the
Loire, in every little bay and inlet that indented the coast from
Brest, where a great squadron was gathered, to Boulogne, where another
was getting together, ships were building of every kind: floating
fortresses of wood, light pinnaces and yawls for carrying the swift
van of an army, and heavy barges for the impedimenta of war. A mighty
flotilla, gathering from the Scheldt to the Garonne, from Toulon and
Rochefort to Calais and Antwerp, to bear a vast invading army to the
shores of England.

In constant communication with the great captain, I yet saw little of
him, for day and night I was kept riding over the green fields of
France, through the beautiful May and June, carrying orders,
sometimes to little inland streams where tiny yawls were building,
sometimes to great city dockyards where mighty ships were on the
stays. And though these were not the deeds of valor I had dreamed of,
I began to realize what a wonderful mind was planning all these
wide-spread activities, and to understand that a great captain must be
something more than a good fighter, and prowess on the field of battle
was not all that was required of a soldier.

Yet I began to long for the din and stir of conflict and to see my
hero, as in dreams I had often seen him, calm and unmoved, 'midst
smoke and carnage, directing with unerring genius masses of men,
infantry, cavalry, artillery, through the mazes of battle; or himself
leading a resistless charge, sword extended, waving his men forward to
victory and glory.

So when an old officer who had seen many wars told me he had no doubt
it would be two years before the preparations for war were finished
and war actually begun, my heart sank within me. Two years of hard
work day and night and no glory! To be aide to the First Consul was
not what I had dreamed of, and my thoughts turned longingly back to
Paris and the Comtesse de Baloit. All the more did my thoughts turn in
that direction because the Chevalier Le Moyne, who was also on the
general's staff, had been for some weeks absent from headquarters. I
always studiously avoided him if we happened to be in quarters at the
same time, and so I did not at first miss him; but when day after day
and even weeks passed without his reporting at mess, I began to be
greatly troubled. My imagination pictured him as back in Paris urging
his suit to Pelagie, and I feared greatly, either that she would at
last yield to his importunities, seeing no way of escape, or that some
trouble would come to her if she persistently scorned him.

In the midst of my anxieties a letter was brought me from home. The
ten weeks were up when I could begin to expect an answer to my uncle's
letter asking my father's permission for me to take service under
Bonaparte, and I tore it eagerly open, hardly knowing, since
hostilities would be so long delayed, whether I most hoped that it
would contain his permission or his refusal. In my haste I had not
noticed that it was not my father's writing on the outside, and that
made it the greater shock to find within, in my mother's dearly loved
penmanship, only these few words:

"Your father is very ill; come home at once."

I had never known my father to be ill even for a day. I knew this must
be no ordinary illness to cause so brief and so peremptory a summons
home, and all my world seemed suddenly topsy-turvy.

I loved my father, but I had been much away from home, in school at
Princeton, and in my short vacations I had found him somewhat cold and
stern in manner; so that my love for him was more of reverence and
honor than the tender affection I felt for my beautiful mother. None
the less was my heart torn with anguish at the thought of what might
befall in the long weeks before I could possibly reach his side, and
how vainly I wished that I had been a better son, and shown him more
of the love that was really in my heart for him.

There was no time to be lost, and my first duty was to seek the First
Consul and show him my letter. He was more kind and considerate than I
could have expected.

"You have my sincerest sympathy," he said. "There is no question as to
your course. Your first duty is to your father. I am sorry to lose my
officer whom I have found even more efficient than I had expected and
for whom I predicted great glory as soon as actual war should
commence. But it may be possible you will find your father entirely
recovered on your arrival at home; in that case, and should you have
his permission to return, your old position will be open to you."

I hardly knew how to thank him suitably and to express my regret at
leaving his service, and I have no doubt I did it awkwardly enough. As
I was leaving the room he called me back.

"Will you go to Paris before you sail?"

There was nothing in the question to make me blush and stammer, yet I
did both.

"I must sail on the earliest packet, sir," I said; "but if one is not
sailing immediately I would like your permission to return to Paris
and settle my affairs there and say good-by to my aunt and uncle."

"It is no doubt the wiser course," replied Bonaparte. "In sailing from
Antwerp you are liable to fall into the hands of the English in
passing the Straits of Dover. From Paris you can find a ship sailing
from Le Havre carrying the American flag. It will be safer, and you
will save time in going by Paris. Should you decide to do so, I shall
have a commission to intrust to you."

Since the First Consul advised it, I decided on the moment, and an
hour later, saddle-bags packed, my man Cæsar holding his own horse and
Fatima at the door, I was ready to start, only awaiting the Consul's
commission. An officer rode up and handed me a packet.

"From General Bonaparte, sir," he said; and as I opened my saddle-bags
to put the packet away for safe keeping, my eye caught the directions
on the wrapper.

"To be delivered to the Comtesse de Baloit, Faubourg St. Germain."

The sight of the inscription gave me only pleasure, and I was tempted
to think that the Consul had devised this commission especially to
give me an opportunity of seeing the comtesse. It seemed to me an
evidence of wonderful delicacy of feeling and thoughtfulness for
others on the part of the great general, and I could not sufficiently
admire him or be grateful to him. There was no question but that his
commission would be faithfully executed the very first possible moment
after my arrival in Paris.

It was early morning, the dew still on the hedges and the lark still
singing his matins, as we entered the city with a stream of
market-carts bringing in fresh fruits and vegetables and flowers for
the early morning markets. Only working-people were in the streets:
men going to their day's labor, blanchisseuses with their clothes in
bundles on their heads, cooks and maids of all work with their baskets
on their arms going to the market for the day's supply of food for the
family.

Crossing the Place de la Bastille, a man on horseback rode up beside
us and gave us good day. He had evidently come in with the country
folk and was himself without doubt a small market-gardener, for the
loam of the garden was on his rough cowhide boots and his blue smock
was such as a countryman wears. I thought at first there was something
strangely familiar in his face, and then I remembered I had seen him
the evening before at the little country inn, twenty miles out from
the city, where we had spent the night. He, like us, must have started
at early dawn to reach the city by seven o'clock, very like for the
same reason--to take advantage of the cool of the day; and like us
also, he must have had a very good horse to make that distance in that
time. I glanced at his horse as the thought occurred to me, and saw
that it was indeed a good horse. Coal-black, except for a white star
on his forehead and one white stocking, he was powerfully built, and
yet with such an easy stretch of limb as promised speed as well as
endurance. I thought it a little strange that a country farmer should
own a horse of such points and breeding as this one showed itself to
be, and perhaps my thought appeared in my face, for the countryman
answered it.

"'Tis a fine horse, Monsieur, is it not?" he said.

I noticed that he spoke with a very slight lisp, but that otherwise
both his language and his intonations were better than I could have
expected.

"Yes," I said. "Did you breed him yourself?"

"Not exactly," he answered, "but he was bred on an estate belonging to
the Comtesse de Baloit, where I work, and I have helped to train him."

He must have seen my irrepressible start when he mentioned Pelagie's
name, for he looked at me curiously with something like either alarm
or suspicion in his glance. I was tempted to tell him that I knew his
mistress and expected to see her that very day, but I was saved from
making such a foolish speech by the fellow himself.

"I am bringing him into the city for the comtesse to try," he said.
"He is a very fine hunter."

"Then your mistress intends to follow the chase?" I asked, feeling a
queer little pang that I did not stop to explain to myself at the
thought.

"I suppose so, Monsieur, since she has sent for her hunter."

We were now well down the Rue de la St. Antoine, just where the narrow
street of François-Miron comes in; and as if a sudden thought had
struck him, the countryman said:

"I go this way, Monsieur; adieu," turned into the narrow street, and
Cæsar and I rode on into the Rue de Rivoli, past the Hôtel de Ville,
and so toward my uncle's house.

"Marsa," said Cæsar, as we turned off the Rue de Rivoli, "dat fellah
had a gold belt and a little dagger stuck in it under his smock. I
seed it when I's ridin' behind youse bof and de win' tuk and blew up
his smock-skirt."

I believed the "gold belt" and the "little dagger" were inventions of
Cæsar's, for he loved to tell wonderful tales; but none the less was I
uneasy and troubled, for suppose it should be true! I liked not the
thought of a man wearing a concealed weapon going on a plausible
errand to the Comtesse de Baloit.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE CONSUL'S COMMISSION

    "Hope tells a flattering tale,
      Delusive, vain, and hollow.
    Ah! let not Hope prevail,
      Lest disappointment follow."


Not many hours later saw me seeking admittance to the stately but
dilapidated hôtel of the Comtesse de Baloit in the Faubourg St.
Germain. I was determined to see Pelagie, and if possible alone, so I
sent up word that a messenger from the First Consul desired to see
Mademoiselle la Comtesse on business of importance. I feared, should I
send up my own name, that the duchesse would not permit her to see me,
but, had I known it, I could have sent no message less likely to win
Pelagie's consent to an interview. It was only through a lurking
suspicion of whom the messenger might be that she consented to see me.

I was ushered into a room very luxuriously furnished, but in which
everything had an air of faded grandeur--as if belonging to another
age. The tapestries were not only faded but rapidly growing
thread-bare, and the gold of the buhl furniture was peeling off in
strips, and in tables inlaid with fine mosaics many of the stones were
wanting. All this lack of care or evidence of poverty rather surprised
me, remembering the magnificent coach and gorgeously liveried servants
I had twice seen on the avenue. Then I recalled what I had often heard
since coming to Paris, that the nobility of the old régime would
starve and go cold at home to make the display in public they
considered befitting their dignity. It seemed very sad to me, and I
wondered if it could be because mademoiselle did not have enough to
eat that she had seemed of late to be growing thin and pale. To me,
who am both somewhat of an epicure and a valiant trencherman (and
remembering the abundance she had been used to in America), nothing
could seem more pitiful than to think of my little Pelagie as going
hungry.

Yet when, in a few minutes, she came in, radiantly beautiful in some
Frenchy flowing gown of pale rose-color and much soft lace and
ribbons, no one could think of her as hungry or poverty-pinched in any
way, but only as some wonderful fairy queen who dined on peacocks'
tongues and supped on nectar and ambrosia.

She was greatly surprised to see me; I think she thought of me as a
kind of Daniel venturing into the lion's den. But the old lioness, the
duchesse, was not with her, only the same companion I had seen in the
carriage on the Champs-Élysées, and I felt once more that fate smiled
on me. It meant much to me, for I knew not whether I should ever see
her again, and I longed greatly to have a few minutes' untrammeled
conversation with her, such as I had often had in St. Louis in those
days that seemed so far away.

Perhaps my eyes dwelt too eagerly upon her. I never could quite
remember how beautiful she was when I was away from her, and so every
time I saw her I was dazzled afresh. This time, too, I was trying to
fasten every lovely curve of cheek and throat, and glowing scarlet of
lips, and shadowy glory of dark eyes and waving hair, and witching
little curls about white brow and neck, yes, and every knot of lace
and ribbon, so firmly in my mind that I might always have the
beautiful picture to look on when there was no longer any hope of
seeing again the bright reality.

So absorbed was I in fixing fast in memory every little detail of the
bright picture that I think I must have forgot my manners: it was only
seeing the long lashes on the rose-tinted cheek that brought me to
myself. I bent low over her hand and then put into it the packet the
First Consul had intrusted me to give to her.

"For me? From the First Consul?" she said, in slow surprise.

"Yes," I said; "and when you have opened it, Mademoiselle, then I
crave a few minutes' speech with you."

I turned and walked to one of the windows and stood looking down into
the courtyard where Cæsar was holding our horses, that mademoiselle
might examine its contents unobserved.

I knew not what was in the package nor the contents of the note that
accompanied it, but somehow I had had a feeling (perhaps because the
First Consul had seemed so kind in his manner at our last interview,
or perhaps only because my hopes pointed that way) that the Consul's
note was to use his influence with her in my behalf, as he had once
used it for the chevalier. Therefore as I stood with my back to her,
looking down into the courtyard, my eyes saw not what they were
looking at, for they were filled with a vision of future happiness and
I was trembling with the beauty of the vision.

"Monsieur!" I turned quickly, for the voice was cold and hard, and it
fell on my heart like the sleet of early spring falling on opening
buds to chill them to death. And when I turned, the Pelagie that met
my gaze was the Pelagie I had first seen in Mr. Gratiot's house: eyes
blazing with wrath, little teeth close set between scarlet lips, and
little hands tightly clenched. My heart froze at the sight. Could the
Consul's plea for me have been so distasteful to her?

"Monsieur," she repeated, every word a poniard, "how did you dare
bring me such a message!"

I found no words to answer her, for if the message was what I had
hoped, then I began to wonder how I had dared, though my spirit, as
proud as hers, brooked not that she should take it as an insult. But
she did not wait for any answer.

"You!" she said, with inexpressible bitterness. "Has wearing the First
Consul's uniform so changed you from the American gentleman I once
knew that you delight to humiliate a poor and helpless lady of
France?"

"Mademoiselle la Comtesse," I said coldly, for still the foolish idea
clung to my brain that the First Consul had wished to further my suit,
and that mademoiselle had regarded it as humiliating that I should so
presume, "I know not the contents of the First Consul's note, but I
think la Comtesse knows I would never willingly humiliate her."

"You know not!" and she half extended the note toward me, as if to
show it to me, and then drew it quickly back, a sudden change in her
manner from proud anger to shrinking shame. She turned to her
companion and said in a cool tone of command:

"You may wait for me, Henriette, in the blue salon; I have something
to say to Monsieur."

Henriette seemed to hesitate. No doubt in France it was not permitted
to see a young gentleman alone, or perhaps Henriette had instructions
from the duchesse to be ever on guard when she herself could not be
present. Mademoiselle saw her hesitation.

"Go!" she said haughtily, and I believe no being on earth would have
dared disobey that ringing tone of command. Henriette shrank from it,
and as she hastened to obey, mademoiselle added in a gentler tone:

"You may return in five minutes."

As she left the room, mademoiselle turned quickly to me, as if to lose
no moment of the few she had given herself.

"Monsieur," she said, and her manner was the manner of the old
Pelagie, "I hope you will forgive me for supposing for a moment that
you knew the contents of the First Consul's note. I cannot show it to
you, but I am going to place a great trust in you. Monsieur, I cannot
stay longer in France. Between the duchesse, the chevalier, and the
First Consul, I will be driven to marry the chevalier, or--worse. Ah,
Monsieur, if I had never left St. Louis!"

She had spoken hurriedly, as if fearing to lose courage otherwise, but
she looked not at me as she spoke, and her face was dyed with painful
blushes. A horrible suspicion of the contents of that note almost
froze my blood, but the next thought, that mademoiselle must fly from
France, sent it rushing hotly through my veins.

"Mademoiselle," I cried impetuously, "go home with me to America."

I saw her turn pale and draw herself up proudly. I did not dream she
could misunderstand me: I only thought she scorned so humble a suitor.
And the thought set fire to a pride that was equal to her own.

"Mademoiselle," I said sternly, "I cannot set you upon a throne nor
place a crown upon your head, but in America the wife of an honorable
gentleman is a queen always, his heart is her throne, his home is her
kingdom, his love is her crown."

To my amazement, she was all soft and drooping and rosy and smiling. I
was ready to pick her up and fly with her that moment, so adorable was
she in this mood, but she would not let me come near her.

"Monsieur," she said, looking up at me most sweetly, "to be the wife
of an honorable American gentleman, it seems to me, would be great
happiness; but you have not your father's permission to marry: he
would not thank you for bringing home an émigré bride."

There came to me a sudden vision of my stern father. He would
certainly think that was a matter on which he should be first
consulted. He was capable of making it very unpleasant for my wife
should I bring one home unannounced, and if he did not cut me off with
a shilling, he might easily put me on so small an allowance as would
make it impossible for me to maintain her in the luxury suited to her
position. I would be glad to work for her, early and late, but I knew
nothing about earning my own bread, and while I was learning to earn
hers she might suffer for the comforts of life.

Mademoiselle was quick to see my embarrassment, and I suppose her
pride was touched, for when she spoke it was with her old hauteur.

"It is very kind of Monsieur to think of offering me a refuge, but my
plans are made."

I hardly heard her, for I was busy with my own thoughts. I interrupted
her eagerly:

"Mademoiselle, let me take you back to St. Louis and put you in Dr.
Saugrain's care; then I will make all necessary arrangements with my
father and come for you."

"You did not understand me, Monsieur," she answered coldly; "my plans
are made: I am going to my cousin the Duc d'Enghien."

"The Duc d'Enghien!" I repeated, in a dazed fashion. Had I not heard
that her cousin would marry her into one of the royal families of
Europe? This, then, was the knell to all my hopes! This was the reason
she answered me so coldly: there was something better in store for her
than to be the wife of a simple American gentleman.

Well, I had never cherished any hopes; had I not told both my uncle
François and the First Consul so? Ah, but had I not? Had not every
moment since I had first known her been a fluctuation between hope and
despair? I had told the First Consul she had not given me any reason
to hope; but had she not? Did she not seem a few minutes ago almost
willing to become the wife of an American gentleman? What had changed
her mood?

While I was trying to collect my scattered thoughts she spoke again,
hurriedly:

"I am telling you this in great confidence, Monsieur, because I can
trust you. No one must know--least of all, any one in this house."

For a moment I could not speak. I turned away to the window and looked
down once more into the courtyard with unseeing eyes. But it was no
beautiful vision of the future that dimmed their gaze this time: it
was the black darkness of despair that blinded them like a pall.

Then I made a great resolve. The Comtesse de Baloit, the Bourbon
princess, was not for such as I; but to mademoiselle, to my little
Pelagie, I might still be loyal friend and offer devoted service. I
turned toward her again.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I will go with you to the Duc d'Enghien. I
will never leave you until I see you safe under the protection of your
cousin."

"What! The young officer of the First Consul aiding and abetting an
émigré who flees from the First Consul! It is rank treason, Monsieur!"
and Pelagie smiled with something of her old merry raillery.

"I am no longer an aide, Mademoiselle," I said seriously. "I have been
called home by the illness of my father, and General Bonaparte has
relieved me from duty."

Her quick sympathy was sweet to see and to feel, but I did not dare
linger in its warmth, for the five minutes, I knew, must be nearly up.

"Now, Mademoiselle," I said, "since I am no longer in service to the
First Consul, there will be no treason in helping you in your
flight--"

But she interrupted me: "No, Monsieur, it is not necessary; the Prince
de Polignac has made every arrangement and will see me safe to my
cousin."

"The Prince de Polignac!" I exclaimed, in surprise. "But he is in
exile, and almost as much under the First Consul's ban as Cadoudal
himself; how can he help you?"

In my astonishment that she should think of relying upon Polignac,
whose life I believed would be forfeit if he dared to enter Paris, I
had unconsciously spoken his name with raised voice. We had heretofore
been speaking almost in whispers for fear of a possible listener. As I
uttered his name Pelagie started and looked nervously toward the door
of the blue salon.

"I beg you to be careful, Monsieur," she said anxiously. "As you say,
his life would be forfeit if any one suspected his presence in Paris.
I do not know that he is here, but I am hourly expecting to hear from
him. There is no one in the world I would have trusted this secret to
but you, and I am relying on your discretion as well as your honor."

I bowed my thanks, grateful for her confidence and ashamed of the
indiscretion that might so easily have betrayed her secret. But I had
not gained my point.

"You will let me help in this flight, too, Mademoiselle! It is a great
peril you are undertaking, and one more sword, whose owner will
lightly risk his life for you, cannot come amiss."

But she only shook her head and whispered, "It is impossible," and at
that moment Henriette entered the room.

"Mademoiselle la Comtesse," she said timidly (I fear Pelagie must have
been at times something of a little tyrant, to make her companion
stand in such awe of her), "I have stayed away, not five minutes, but
ten. I come to remind you that the hour has arrived at which Madame la
Duchesse returns."

"Thanks, my good Henriette," said Pelagie, sweetly; "it is true, and I
had forgotten it."

She turned quickly to me: "You must go at once, Monsieur! It is much
better the duchesse should not find you here."

"And can I not see you again? Shall I never see you again?" I asked
eagerly, in English.

"No, no! Do not try--I will send word," she answered, also in
English, and then put out her hand, "Go, Monsieur," she said in
French, "and farewell!"

I took her hand and bent low over it.

"Farewell, Mademoiselle," I said, for it cut me to the quick that she
had not said "Au revoir," as she had said it on La Belle Rivière.

Down in the courtyard, in the act of throwing my leg over Fatima's
back, there rode under the arch of the entrance the countryman who had
overtaken us in the morning, leading the magnificent horse he had said
was for Mademoiselle la Comtesse, and riding another. It was not
strange that he should be bringing mademoiselle her hunter, but it
struck me as somewhat strange that the moment he caught sight of me a
quick scowl should darken his brow and as quickly be cleared away: as
if it had come unbidden and been driven away from a sense of
expediency. As I passed him on the way out he touched his cap to me
politely, and the sleeve of his rough jerkin falling away a little in
the act, I thought I caught a glimpse of a lace wrist-ruffle.

"Perhaps Cæsar was not mistaken, after all," I said to myself; "if he
wears lace ruffles at his wrist he may well wear a gold belt and
poniard at his waist. A strange countryman, forsooth!" And a secret
uneasiness that I could neither explain nor dismiss returned to me as
often as he came into my thoughts.




CHAPTER XXVII

"GOOD-BY, SWEETHEART!"

    "I have found out a gift for my fair."


There was nothing to keep me in Paris. I could not see mademoiselle;
she would not let me help her in her flight. I was restless and
impatient to be off. No boat would sail from Le Havre for nearly a
week. It would not take a week either by horse, as Cæsar and I would
go, or by the river, where my baggage was to be floated down in a
small yawl in the charge of a trusty boatman. But if I stayed in Paris
I would be eating my heart out; it was better to be on the way and
taking the route by slow stages.

So I made the plea to my aunt and uncle that I feared some unforeseen
delay might cause me to miss my ship, and with feverish haste I made
all arrangements for departure that very night. To my aunt my
impatience seemed only natural. She herself was greatly distressed at
the news of my father's illness, and would have accompanied me to
America if it had been possible.

My first act on reaching home after leaving mademoiselle had been to
tear off my gorgeous uniform, with such a mingling of loathing and
regret as rarely comes to a man. If my suspicions of the contents of
mademoiselle's note were correct, then I could not quickly enough rid
myself of every emblem of the allegiance I had once owed to the First
Consul. And yet when I remembered his invariable kindness to me, the
magnanimity he had shown for what must have seemed to him criminal
eavesdropping, the tenderness of heart I had seen displayed more than
once, the wonderful powers of the man, master alike of the arts of
peace and war, the idolatry in which his soldiers held him and in
which I had hitherto shared, my heart lamented bitterly that its idol
should have been so shattered.

Since we had time to spare and it was now the meridian of summer, I
had decided to use only the cool of evening and the early morning
hours for travel, as much, I think, for the sake of sparing Fatima as
Cæsar and myself. Our first stage was to be to the same little inn,
twenty miles out, which we had left only that morning to come into the
city. It was not, perhaps, on the most direct route to Le Havre, but a
large part of the way would lead through the forests of Montmorency
and Chantilly and would be pleasant riding, and the inn was almost the
cleanest and most comfortable of its kind I had found in France. My
weeks under Bonaparte bearing messages to every little river big
enough to build a boat upon had taught me the roads well; all this
northern France was like an open book to me and I would find no
difficulty in cutting across from the forest of Chantilly to the
banks of the Seine, if I preferred to follow its windings to Le Havre.

So the long shadows of the late afternoon saw us riding under the
Porte St. Martin; at sunset we were passing the hoary Basilique of St.
Denis, tomb of the kings; through the long twilight we skirted the
forest of Montmorency; and by moonrise we were entering the forest of
Chantilly. Not more beautiful by early dawn and dew had been this
ride, than it was through lengthening shadows, and violet glow of
sunset, and silvery light of moon, the peaches ripening on sunny
walls, and the odors of mint and sweet-smelling herbs rising through
the gathering damps of evening, the birds singing their vesper songs,
and in the deep forest glades the lonely nightingale pouring out his
soul to the moon.

Yet my heart was heavier. On my long ride from Antwerp, with the
buoyancy of youth, I had passed through all the phases from anguished
fear to the almost certitude of hope, and I had entered Paris feeling
sure that I would find my father well again when I should reach
America. I had entered Paris also joyous with the thought of seeing
mademoiselle once more, and with the unconfessed hope that the budget
I was bearing from the great Bonaparte might be the means of bringing
me the crowning happiness of my life. I was leaving it now with one
word ringing in my ears as the death-knell to all my hopes--Farewell!

The hour was still early and my inn but a little way off on the
western borders of the forest; I would make a little detour and see
the château and park and still be not too late for a good supper and
a comfortable night's rest. I left the "old road" (which crossed the
forest directly) at the Carrefour de la Table, where twelve roads met
in an open circular space surrounding a great stone table. From there
I took one leading straight to the Grille d'Honneur. We crossed a
little bridge that spanned the moat, and looking down into its waters,
we heard the splash of the ancient carp that filled it. Then through
the Grille d'Honneur and between two stone dogs at the foot of the
slope that led up to the ruins of the Grande Château. There I drew
rein and looked over the beautiful domain.

At my right was the ruined château; in front of me the châtelet, in
perfect preservation, apparently floating on the bosom of a silvery
lake that entirely surrounded it. Beyond were the famous stables of
the Great Condé, holding two hundred and sixty horses in his lifetime.
Beside them was the chapel, and everywhere a network of basins and
canals gleaming white under the flooding moonlight. At my back were
the gloomy towers of the Château d'Enghien, built to house the guests
of the Condés who overflowed the Grande Château and the châtelet; and
beyond was a mass of rich foliage belonging to the Park of Sylvie.

As I gazed a thousand thoughts crowded into my mind. This was the home
of mademoiselle's ancestors; it should now be the home of the Duc
d'Enghien; perhaps when mademoiselle came into her own it would be
hers. No doubt in these very parks she had played in infancy.
Generations of grandeur, of princely splendor, were behind her. How
had I dared to dream of her! How had I dared to think she would stoop
to my lowly rank!

I gave Fatima's bridle to Cæsar and told him to wait for me while I
walked down the green slope into the Park of Sylvie. Enchanting vistas
opened before me, the moonlight filtering through arched canopies of
foliage just enough to show me the way. Old tales of the Duchesse
"Sylvie" and the poet-lover, condemned to death, whom she had hidden
in this park and its little château floated through my mind strangely
mingled with dreams of a later daughter of Montmorency.

And then suddenly I came upon something that for a moment I almost
believed to be a continuation of my dreams. I had turned to my right
and a new vista had opened before me, closed by the little "Château of
Sylvie." On the wide lawn before it, half hidden by the shadow of the
château, half in the broad moonlight, was a strange group: a carriage
and what seemed to me many horses and many men. I thought for a moment
I had landed upon a nest of bandits such as might easily infest a
forest like this, and it would behoove me to steal silently back to
the horses and make good my escape; but I caught a glimpse of
petticoats: they were not bandits; they must be Gipsies.

Then as I gazed there stepped out into the full moonlight a man
leading a powerful black horse with one white stocking and a white
star in his forehead. I heard the man call some brief order to some
one in the shadow, and there was a slight lisp in his voice. In a
moment I understood it all, although the man was no longer wearing a
countryman's coat, but the livery of a gentleman's servant. It was
Pelagie and her party fleeing to Baden and the Duc d'Enghien!

I knew not whether I would be a welcome guest or an intruder, but I
knew I was not going to miss this opportunity of seeing Pelagie once
more. I stepped out boldly from under the shadows of the trees into
the moonlight, and in so doing came near losing my life. There was the
click of a lock and the flash of a gun-barrel in the countryman's
hands.

"Don't shoot, Monsieur," I cried; "it is a friend."

There was a short, sharp cry, half suppressed, and Pelagie came
running out of the shadow, both hands extended and her face glowing in
the moonlight.

"Is it you, Monsieur?" she cried. "How came you here?"

I suppose I answered her in some fashion. I know I took her hands in
mine and looked down into her beautiful eyes, but I know not what I
said. She was wearing the cap and apron and simple gown of a lady's
waiting-maid, and as she saw me look curiously at it she said, with
the shrug of her pretty little shoulders that I had learned to know so
well in St. Louis:

"It is a fright, is it not, Monsieur? But I am no longer the Comtesse
de Baloit: I am Susanne, the maid of Madame du Bois, with whom I am
traveling."

Her voice had the happy ring of a child's, as if she were glad to be
free, even if only for a time, from the cares of rank and position;
or, perhaps more truly, glad to be away from the surveillance of the
duchesse, happy that she need no longer fear the chevalier and the
First Consul. I longed to think that a part of the gladness was in
seeing me once more so unexpectedly; but I knew this was only my
foolish vanity, and I steadied my brain by saying over to myself, "She
is a princess of Condé in her ancestral home; you are only the son of
a plain American gentleman." So I made her such a speech as I would
have made to a princess of Condé.

"If Mademoiselle were not the Comtesse de Baloit I could wish she were
always Susanne the maid of Madame du Bois. 'Tis a bewitching costume."

It was, and she knew it, as I could see by her dancing eyes and the
smile (that she vainly tried to suppress) playing hide-and-seek with
the roses in her cheek as I spoke. Being a man, I could not name each
article of her costume; but what I saw was a vision of little ringlets
escaping from under a coquettish cap, dainty ankles that the short
blue skirt did not pretend to hide, a snowy apron that almost covered
the blue skirt, and a handkerchief demurely crossed over the beautiful
shoulders.

She turned quickly, as if to escape my gaze, and called to the
countryman: "Monsieur le Prince, this is the friend of whom I have
spoken; I want him to meet the Prince de Polignac."

The prince came forward at once; and as we grasped each other's hands
and looked into each other's eyes, I think he knew that he need no
longer regard me with suspicion, and I knew that here was a man to
whom I could trust even Pelagie.

We laughed a little over our first meeting, and I told him how Cæsar
had detected his weapon; and then out of the shadows came other
figures: Henriette, to whom, as her mistress, Madame du Bois, Pelagie
gaily presented me; a man in the costume of a well-to-do bourgeois,
whom they called Monsieur du Bois, but who, Pelagie whispered to me,
was the prince's trusted body-servant; and Clotilde, whom I had not
seen since I had seen her on La Belle Rivière, and who wept at the
sight of me, a tribute to the memory of other days. Last of all there
came out of the shadows my burly host of last night's inn. He had
brought over to the little château a relay of fresh horses and a
hamper of supper. All arrangements had been made at his inn the night
before by the Prince de Polignac in the guise of a countryman; for
careless Boniface as my host had seemed to be, he was devotedly
attached to his old masters, the Bourbon princes, and could be trusted
to the death.

It amazed me greatly that they should have accomplished this journey
in a shorter time than I, and still more that they should have
succeeded in getting safely, out of Paris with so large a party, and I
so expressed myself to the prince.

"It had been all carefully planned, Monsieur," he told me. "My man,
'Monsieur du Bois,' had a traveling-carriage waiting at a little house
near the Porte St. Denis, where an old servitor of the family lives.
He had passports made out for Madame and Monsieur du Bois from New
Orleans, traveling with their negro servant Clotilde, and with a maid
Susanne, and a man François. Mademoiselle la Comtesse arranged to try
her hunter at three o'clock in the Bois, accompanied by her companion,
Henriette (who in these few weeks has become devotedly attached to the
comtesse), and by the countryman who had brought her the horse and
understood him more thoroughly than a groom from the stables of the
duchesse would have done. At the same hour the negro maid of the
comtesse strolled out into a quiet street at the rear of the hôtel,
where she was met by my man and conducted to the little house near the
Porte St. Denis. At a little before four we had all gathered there; by
half-past four the transformation had been made and we were leaving
the house, Madame du Bois and her two maids in the carriage, Monsieur
du Bois on the comtesse's hunter, I on my own horse and leading the
one Henriette had ridden. We had arranged to meet Pierre here with
fresh horses and provisions, and spend half an hour in changing
horses, resting, and supper. Your unexpected appearance, Monsieur, has
alarmed me. I had thought the Park of Sylvie sufficiently secluded to
insure us secrecy, but if you have found it, others may whom we would
be less glad to see, and I think I will form my little company into
marching order at once. The comtesse is taking it all as a grand
adventure; her spirits have risen with every step away from Paris:
that is the princely blood of Condé that loves deeds of daring, and I
would not say a word to dampen her ardor; but we know, Monsieur, it is
a serious matter, and so, though our half-hour is not quite up, I
think I will order the advance."

"You are quite right, Monsieur le Prince," I replied. "My man is
waiting for me with our horses in the Court d'Honneur; will you permit
me to ride a little way with you?"

The prince hesitated a moment, and then in his courtliest manner he
replied to my request:

"I am sure Monsieur will not misunderstand me when I say nothing could
give us greater pleasure if it seemed safe. But Monsieur's size
and--appearance," with a bow and a smile flattering no doubt, but
discouraging, "have made him well known in France. Moreover,
Monsieur's friendship for the comtesse (which does him honor) is known
also, and should a pursuing party make inquiries along the road, and
should our party be described with you in attendance, I fear they will
be able to identify us at once."

"I understand, Monsieur le Prince," I answered, much crestfallen. And
then into my slow brain there popped another question.

"But will not the negro maid Clotilde betray you also?"

"Monsieur is very astute," answered the prince. "He has touched upon
our weak point, and I am going to prove my friendly regard for
Monsieur by asking of him a great service. We could not leave the
negress behind in Paris: the comtesse would not stir one step without
her, fearing that she would be very unhappy, if not come to want and
suffering in a strange city. All the way from Paris I have been
revolving plans in my mind as to how best to separate her from our
party. I had thought of letting Pierre take charge of her, but that
would not do; for should she be discovered, that would make Pierre
'suspect,' and he would be thrown into prison for aiding and abetting
the flight of the comtesse, and it would be a clue to trace us. When I
saw you, Monsieur, I said, 'There is a way out of our dilemma. If
Monsieur will take Clotilde back with him to America, we are safe.'"

Joy filled my heart that I was at last to be allowed to do something
for the comtesse.

"Gladly, Monsieur!" I exclaimed; "and it can be very easily arranged.
We will strike across country to Pontoise and the forest of St.
Germain, and head off my boatman. He was to tie up for the night at a
little village near Marly-le-Roi. I will find him there and put
Clotilde in his wife's care. His wife accompanies him, for the voyage
and to cook his meals."

The prince's gratitude seemed to me incommensurate with so small a
service, and so I told him. And then another difficulty suggested
itself to me.

"Monsieur le Prince," I said, "I recognized you from the hunter of
Mademoiselle la Comtesse; will not perhaps others also?"

"I have thought of this, Monsieur," he said; "but it seemed even more
difficult to arrange than the other. It is necessary that the comtesse
should have a swift and powerful horse, for if we are pursued, she and
I will take to our horses and leave the others to shift for
themselves. I had thought of asking Pierre to try to find another as
good as this (though for speed and endurance I do not believe he has
his equal in France), but even then I should not know what to do with
this one. I could not give him to Pierre: that again would bring him
under suspicion. I should have to shoot and bury him. However, it is
too late now to make the change; we will even have to take the risk."

"Monsieur," I said slowly, for willingly as I would make any sacrifice
for mademoiselle, even to my life I could not lightly do that which I
was about to do--"Monsieur, I have a horse who for speed and endurance
has hardly her equal in the whole world. She knows Mademoiselle la
Comtesse well and will do her bidding as she does mine. I will change
horses with you. The comtesse shall have my chestnut mare and I will
take her black beauty."

The prince did not know that this was a far greater sacrifice on my
part than taking charge of Clotilde had been, yet he knew a man loves
his own mare well, and in so far he appreciated the service and
thanked me for it.

But the matter of separating Clotilde from her mistress had to be
broached to mademoiselle, and the prince begged me to undertake the
difficult task. All the time while the prince, and I had been holding
our conversation together aside from the others, she had been
exploring the purlieus of the little château with frequent
exclamations of delight, not one of which fell unheeded on my ears,
although I was deep in consultation. Now she came running up to me
joyously.

"Monsieur, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "I have found the little arbor
where I used to take my dolls and play at housekeeping! Ah, how well I
remember it! How often I have thought of it! And how little I ever
expected to see it again!" and her eyes were as bright and as soft as
the waters of the little lake stretching from our feet to the Grille
d'Honneur and shining in the misty moonlight. I knew how quickly those
eyes could change from dewy softness to lightning flashes, and it is
not to be wondered at that I plunged into my subject with nervous
haste.

"Mademoiselle," I said (and I thought the prince liked not the lack of
formality in my address), "the Prince de Polignac has assigned to me
an unpleasant duty; it is to tell you that we find it necessary for
your safety to take away Clotilde."

Perhaps I was too abrupt; at any rate, much as I had expected a
tempest I was not prepared for the tornado that ensued.

"Take away my Clotilde!" she interrupted. "Never! never! never!" And
then there followed a torrent of tears mingled with reproaches as she
threw herself upon Clotilde's breast--the breast she had wept upon
since she was a babe of six. But Clotilde's cries were stormier than
her mistress's: she literally lifted up her voice and wept. The prince
was the picture of distress and dismay: there was danger that the
sound of weeping might penetrate to unfriendly ears. Mademoiselle in
tears was ever more formidable to me than an army with banners, but
there was no help for it; I took my courage in my hand.

"Mademoiselle la Comtesse," I said sternly, "you are causing the
Prince de Polignac great distress. You are in danger any moment of
betraying his retreat to an enemy, and if he is captured, his life is
forfeit, as you know."

I spoke thus to arouse her from a contemplation of her own woes to his
danger, for well I knew her generous soul would respond at once to
such a plea, and I was not mistaken. Her sobs ceased instantly and she
stilled Clotilde with a word; then she turned and looked at me quietly
while I went on with what I had to say:

"It is to anticipate the danger of such discovery that we remove
Clotilde, who, being almost the only negress in France, would betray
your identity at once. I will take her with me to America, and from
Philadelphia I will send her under safe escort to Dr. Saugrain in St.
Louis, and when you are safely established in your own home you can
send for her again."

I think the thought of seeing St. Louis once more half consoled
Clotilde for the parting, though she was a faithful creature and loved
her mistress, and would have followed her to the ends of the earth. I
know it helped to console Pelagie, for it was the thought of leaving
Clotilde alone and unprotected in a foreign country that disturbed her
most.

But all this had taken much time, and the half-hour the prince had
allowed for rest was more than up. They had had their supper, the
carriage-horses had been changed, the saddle-horses had been fed and
watered, and the prince was in feverish haste to be off. I ran swiftly
to the Court d'Honneur, where I had left Cæsar, and found him
wondering anxiously what had kept me so long. He had fed and watered
both horses and was now letting them crop a little of the luxuriant
grass at their feet. I did not stop for explanations, but bidding him
follow me with his horse, I led Fatima by a shorter and more direct
route straight from the Grille d'Honneur to the little château. I
found the carriage with "Monsieur and Madame du Bois"; the coachman
and outriders had already started. Pierre had set out a luncheon on
the little stone table for Cæsar and me (for since we were not to go
to his inn there was no prospect for supper for us), and was getting
the two carriage-horses ready to take them back with him. Clotilde was
silently weeping and Pelagie was trying to comfort her. I led Fatima
straight to Pelagie.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "the Prince de Polignac permits me to give you
a farewell present. Will you take Fatima and keep her for me? She will
bear you to your destination, I believe, more safely and more surely
than any horse in the world."

"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!" she said, and then could say nothing more,
her little chin quivering piteously. I could not bear to see it. I had
motioned to Cæsar to put on Fatima the side-saddle lying on the grass,
and now I said,

"Let me put you on her back," and bent to lift her; but she drew back.

"Oh, no, no, Monsieur!" she cried. "I know why you do it, and I know
what a sacrifice it is to you. I cannot let you give up Fatima!"

"Then you are depriving me of a great happiness," I softly answered.
"I had hoped you would take her and keep her and love her. It would
be a great comfort to me in distant America to think of you as being
kind to her sometimes for the sake of old St. Louis memories."

I looked steadily into her eyes.

"Mademoiselle, may I put you on her back?"

She bowed her head, and I lifted her to her seat, put her foot in the
stirrup and the bridle in her hand. Then I threw my arm over Fatima's
neck.

"Good-by, Sweetheart," I whispered, "take good care of your mistress,"
and kissed her on the white star on her forehead. Still with my arm
over her neck I reached up my hand to mademoiselle.

She put her hand in mine, and I kissed it as I had kissed it when she
chose me her king; then I lifted my eyes and looked straight into
hers.

"Good-by, Mademoiselle, and au revoir," I said, and dropped her hand.

She could not answer for the same piteous quivering of the chin, but
her lips formed "Au revoir"; and then she turned Fatima and rode
slowly under the leafy arch that led through a long tunnel of foliage,
due east.

"Monsieur," said the prince, and I started; for a moment I had
forgotten his existence.

He had withdrawn courteously while I was making my adieus with
mademoiselle, busying himself with little preparations for departure.
Now he had mounted and drawn his horse to my side.

"Monsieur, you have taught me to honor and admire all American
gentlemen. If there is any service I can ever do you, I hope you will
give me the opportunity of showing you how much I appreciate the great
service you have done us this night."

"Monsieur le Prince," I answered quickly, too eager with my own
thoughts to thank him for his kind words, "there is one kindness you
can show me that will more than repay me for anything I have ever done
or ever could do. Write me of mademoiselle's safe arrival when you
reach Baden. I will give you my address," and I tore a leaf from my
memorandum-book, wrote my address upon it, and thrust it into his
hand.

"It is a small commission, Monsieur," he answered, "but I will be most
happy to execute it."

He grasped my hand, said "Au revoir," and cantered quickly away after
mademoiselle.

I watched them riding side by side under the leafy dome until their
figures were lost in the darkness, mademoiselle still with bent head,
and he with his face turned courteously away as if not to seem to see
should she be softly crying. And if there was for a moment in my heart
a jealous envy that he should ride by mademoiselle's side and I be
left behind, I put it quickly away, for I knew him to be a noble and
courteous gentleman, and one to whose honor I could trust the dearest
thing in life.




CHAPTER XXVIII

EXIT LE CHEVALIER

    "The King of France with forty thousand men,
    Went up a hill, and so came down agen."


Clothilde, Cæsar, and I had ridden late into the night before we had
reached the little village on the Seine where my boatman, Gustave, was
to tie up. But it was moonlight and we rode through a beautiful
country dotted with royal châteaus,--the birthplaces of illustrious
kings,--and I had my thoughts, and Clotilde and Cæsar had each other:
for Cæsar was the first of her kind Clotilde had seen since coming to
France, and much as she might enjoy the attentions of footmen in
gorgeous liveries, after all they were only "white trash," and she
loved best her own color. Clotilde was rapidly becoming consoled; and
though she only spoke creole French, and Cæsar only English, save for
the few words he had picked up since coming to Paris, they seemed to
make themselves very well understood.

So the ride had not been so tedious as it might have been. And when we
had found Gustave's boat tied to the bank and had routed up him and
his wife, and delivered Clotilde into their care (and their
admiration and awe of the black lady was wonderful to see), and Cæsar
and I had hunted up a fairly comfortable inn and had two or three
hours of sleep, we were all quite ready to start on again.

Feeling that Clotilde was a sacred trust, I was anxious both for her
safety and for her welfare, and thus it was that the early morning
found me following the windings of the Seine by a little bridle-path
on its banks, hardly twenty feet from Gustave's boat dropping down
with the tide. Gustave's wife was in the forward part of the boat,
preparing breakfast for the three, and the savory odor of her bacon
and coffee was borne by the breeze straight to my nostrils on the high
bank above her. Gustave himself was in the stern of the boat, lazily
managing the steering-oar and waiting for his breakfast, and
incidentally grinning from ear to ear at Cæsar, riding a pace behind
me and casting longing glances at the thatched roof of the little
boat's cabin, whence issued in rich negro tones the creole love-song
Yorke had sung to Clotilde on the Ohio boat:

    "Every springtime
    All the lovers
    Change their sweethearts;
    Let change who will,
    I keep mine."

I had straitly charged Clotilde that she must keep herself closely
concealed within the cabin, but I had said nothing to her about also
keeping quiet. Now I was idly thinking that perhaps I had better give
her instructions upon that point also, when down the stony road some
three feet higher than the bridle-path, and separated from it by a
bank of turf, came the thunder of hoofs. I glanced up quickly. A
little party of horsemen, five or six in number, were dashing down the
road toward us, and in the lead was the Chevalier Le Moyne! At sight
of us they drew rein, and the chevalier, looking down on me (for the
first time in his life), brought his hat to his saddle-bow with a
flourish.

"Good morning, Monsieur. I hear you are off for America."

"Good morning," I answered coolly, merely touching my own hat. "You
have heard correctly"; and I wished with all my heart that I had had
time to tell Clotilde to keep still, for up from the boat below,
louder and clearer than ever, it seemed to me, came the refrain of her
foolish song:

    "Tous les printemps,
    Tous les amants
    Changent de maîtresses;
    Qu'ils changent qui voudront,
    Pour moi, je garde la mienne."

The chevalier was listening pointedly.

"An old song, Monsieur, that I have often heard in St. Louis. And the
voice, too, I think is familiar. It is the black maid of the Comtesse
de Baloit, is it not? Perhaps her mistress is with her; if so, our
quest is at an end."

"What do you mean, Monsieur le Chevalier!" I exclaimed, affecting
virtuous indignation, and feeling a little of it, too, for I liked not
the chevalier's manner.

"You have heard, I suppose," he answered, with a light sneer, "that
the comtesse has disappeared from Paris. At almost the same moment it
was announced that monsieur had started for America, and some of the
comtesse's friends thought it not impossible that they had gone
together. From the warbling of that nightingale yonder I judge they
were not far wrong."

Not until this moment had it occurred to me that any one would connect
the flight of the comtesse with my departure, and I hardly knew
whether I was more ragingly angry at the thought or secretly glad.
There was no question as to my state of mind toward the chevalier.
That he should speak in such a light and sneering tone of any lady,
but most of all that he should so speak of the loveliest lady on
earth, was not to be borne. Yet I was glad, for some reasons, that
such a mistaken surmise had arisen: it would throw pursuit off the
track until Pelagie was well on her way to the German frontier, and
the truth would come out later and my lady not suffer in her
reputation (which indeed I could not have endured).

So instead of giving free vent to the anger that raged in my heart, as
I longed to do, I thought it wise to dally with the chevalier and keep
him as long as possible on the wrong scent, for every moment of delay
to the chevalier was setting mademoiselle farther on her way.

"Your news, Monsieur," I said, "is most astonishing, but your
insinuations also most insulting to a lady whose honor and reputation
shall ever be my dearest care."

Now the chevalier was five to one (for I could not count upon Cæsar
for fighting, as I might have counted upon Yorke). I do not say that
that fact made the chevalier more bold or less careful in his manner,
but I certainly think that had we been man to man he would not have
answered as he did.

"Your virtuous indignation is pretty to see, Monsieur," he answered;
"but I have the warrant of the republic to search whatever domains I
may suspect of harboring the comtesse, and I think I will use my
rights on yonder boat, where I see the face of her maid at the
window."

I glanced quickly at the boat. Sure enough, in the little square of
glass that formed the window of the cabin was framed Clotilde's black
face. And her nose (already broad enough) being flattened against the
glass, and her eyes rolling wildly with curiosity and fear as she
gazed at the party of armed horsemen on the bank, she made a ludicrous
picture indeed. I would have liked to laugh heartily but that it was
my rôle to display chagrin and anxiety rather than a careless levity.

"Monsieur," I said seriously, "you are quite right: that is Clotilde,
the maid of Mademoiselle la Comtesse. I was requested last evening to
take her back to America and return her to her friends in St. Louis.
It will always be my greatest pleasure to render the comtesse any
service within my power, and I did not stop to question why she wished
to get rid of her maid."

"Your explanation is most plausible, Monsieur,"--the chevalier's tone
was intentionally insulting, and, but that I had mademoiselle's
interests more at heart than my own sensitive self-esteem, would have
been hard to brook,--"but since I hold a warrant of search, if
Monsieur permits, I will do myself the honor of visiting his boat."

Now I cared not at all whether the chevalier visited the boat or not,
knowing well he would not find the comtesse there. My only anxiety was
to temporize as long as possible and keep him still suspicious of my
complicity with mademoiselle's flight, that she might profit by his
delay in discovering the true scent. So I answered sternly:

"Monsieur, that boat is for the time being United States territory.
You step upon its planks without my consent at your peril. I will at
once report the matter to our minister at Paris, Mr. Livingston, and
if a war between the United States and France is the result, you will
have to give an account to the First Consul of your acts which caused
that war."

I was not enough of a diplomat to know whether I was speaking within
my rights or not, but I trusted to the chevalier being no better
informed than I, and at the best I was but speaking against time. The
effect of my speech was all that I could have desired. The chevalier
looked immediately crestfallen, and turned to consult with his
comrades. For full five minutes (I could have wished it ten times
five) they carried on a conference that at times appeared to be
heated, though always low-toned. Then the chevalier turned to me
again, and his manner was no longer insulting, but of such respect as
is due one gentleman from another.

"Monsieur," he said, "perhaps I have no right to _demand_ that I be
allowed to search a boat belonging to an American gentleman, but if
Monsieur will permit me to do so he will oblige me greatly, and it
will be the means of clearing him at once of suspicions that may have
unjustly accrued to him."

There was no wisdom in delaying longer.

"Since Monsieur puts it in that way," I said, "I can have no object in
refusing his request. I shall have to ask you, however, that you wait
a few minutes until I step aboard and warn Gustave and his wife of the
purpose of your visit, lest they be unnecessarily alarmed."

The chevalier showed that he liked not the last part of my speech. He
no doubt thought that my purpose in going aboard first was to find a
secure hiding-place for the comtesse. However, he had no alternative
but to acquiesce. My real purpose was to warn Gustave and his wife
that on no account were they to betray at what hour or where Clotilde
had come aboard. She was to have come aboard at Paris at four o'clock
the day before; and they, having no inkling of the true state of the
case, but suspecting, I believe, some intrigue between the "dark lady"
and her lovers, sympathetically promised implicit obedience. With
Clotilde I was even more strenuous. Her story must agree with
Gustave's: she had boarded the boat in Paris at four of the afternoon;
but especially was she to know nothing of her mistress's plans--why
or where she had gone. With her I appealed to her love for her
mistress, and warned her that the comtesse's liberty, possibly her
life, might depend upon her discretion. With the others a promise of
liberal rewards if they proved true, and dire threats should they
betray me, I believed secured their fidelity.

I had had Gustave tie the boat to the bank before boarding it myself;
I now invited the chevalier and his friends to come aboard. Leaving
two of their comrades to hold their horses, the three others climbed
down the bank and hastened to comply with my invitation. As they did
so I saw Cæsar dismount, tie his own horse and mine securely to two
saplings, and clamber up the bank beside the horsemen. I thought his
motive was probably to take advantage of this opportunity to stretch
his legs, and perhaps also to indulge his curiosity with a nearer view
of the French gentlemen, and I saw no reason to interfere--especially
as the two gentlemen, young blades whom I knew by sight, not only
offered no objections, but began at once to amuse themselves with his
clownish manners and outlandish speech.

Of course the chevalier's quest was futile, as also was his
examination of his three witnesses. They all stuck to their text,--the
embarkation of Clotilde at four o'clock on the afternoon previous in
Paris,--and Clotilde was as stupid as heart could desire, professing
absolute ignorance of her mistress's plans, and knowing only that she
herself was being sent home to America because she was homesick; and
with a negress's love of gratuitous insult when she thinks she is
safe in offering it, she added in her creole dialect:

     "De Lord knows, I's sick o' white trash anyhow. I's mighty
     glad to be gittin' back to a country ob ladies and
     gen'lemen."

The chevalier's two companions laughed, but the chevalier looked
perplexed.

"Monsieur," he said, with an air of exaggerated deference, "I have
discovered nothing on your boat, either by search or by examination of
the witnesses, that can implicate you in any way with the flight of
the Comtesse de Baloit. But will you permit me to ask you one
important question? How does it happen that you are not riding Fatima,
and that you are riding the horse which answers exactly to the
description of the one the comtesse was riding when she disappeared?"
and the chevalier could not quite keep the tone of triumph out of his
voice as he propounded his question. I had been expecting it, and I
was prepared for it. I should have been much disappointed if he had
not asked it.

"Monsieur," I answered, "Fatima met with a serious accident just after
leaving Paris. I was obliged to leave her in the hands of a veterinary
surgeon on the outskirts of St. Denis, who has also a small farm
connected with his establishment for the care of sick horses. He
promised me to take the best of care of her and to return her to me in
America as soon as she was sufficiently recovered. I bought this horse
from a dealer to whom the surgeon directed me. I cannot say whether it
resembles the horse on which the Comtesse de Baloit left Paris; I did
not see the comtesse when she left Paris."

Which was the only truth in my statement; but I did not for a moment
consider that I had told a lie, but only that I had employed a ruse,
perfectly permissible in war, to throw the enemy off the track. He
snatched at the bait.

"Will Monsieur give me the address of that horse-dealer?"

"With pleasure, as nearly as I am able," and thereupon I described
minutely a place in St. Denis that never existed. But St. Denis was
only four miles this side of Paris, and should the chevalier go all
the way back to find out from the mythical horse-dealer where he had
procured my horse, much valuable time would be lost and mademoiselle
would, I hoped, be beyond all risk of being overtaken.

By one little artifice and another we had already managed to delay
them for a good three quarters of an hour, and now, by an apparently
happy accident, as long a delay again was promised. A great noise of
shouting and trampling of horses' hoofs arose on the bank above us.

We looked up and saw the five horses plunging frantically, with the
two Frenchmen uttering excited cries as they tried to hold them, and
Cæsar doing his share in trying to hold the horses and more than his
share in making a noise. As we looked, one of the horses broke away
and started up the road toward Paris. The two Frenchmen dashed wildly
in pursuit, each man leading a horse with him, and Cæsar running on
behind gesticulating madly, and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

I had taken advantage of the excitement of the fracas to slip from the
post the rope that held us to the bank. We glided gently away down the
river, with no one (unless it might have been Gustave, but he said
nothing) noticing that we were moving until we were many yards below
our mooring-place. The anger of the chevalier and his friends when
they discovered it knew no bounds. Gustave was full of apologies for
his carelessness, as he called it; I was dignified.

"Gustave," I said severely, "make a mooring as quickly as possible,
that Monsieur le Chevalier and his friends may rejoin their horses."

Gustave made all haste apparently, but without doubt he fumbled, and
we were some two or three hundred yards farther down the river before
we were finally tied to the bank.

"Good-by, Messieurs," I said politely as the three hastened to leap
ashore. "I trust you will have no difficulty in recovering your
horses."

They stayed not upon the order of their going, as Mr. Shakspere says,
but scrambled up the bank and on to the hot and stony road, and the
sun, now well up in the sky, beating strongly on their backs, they
started at a round pace toward Paris, their horses by this time out of
sight around a distant bend in the road.

Cæsar had given up the pursuit and returned to where he had tied our
horses. I signaled to him to bring them down the river, and mounting
his and leading mine, he was soon at our mooring-place.

Riding down the soft turf of the shady bridle-path a few minutes
later, I heard Cæsar chuckling behind me. I turned in my saddle:

"What is it, Cæsar?"

"I done it, Marsa!"

"Did what, Cæsar?"

"Done mek dat hoss run away. I put a burr un'er his girth. Den when he
plunged I cotched de bridle and let him loose. He, he, he! Hi, hi,
hi!" and Cæsar rolled in his saddle in convulsions of mirth, while the
shore echoed to his guffaws.

I looked at him in astonishment for a moment. Then he had planned it
all: tying the two horses, clambering up to the road, making himself
the jest of the two Frenchmen, and all the time the burr concealed in
his hand, no doubt, waiting his chance.

"Cæsar, you are a general!" I said. "Yorke could not have done
better." And then, his mirth being contagious, I threw back my head
and laughed as long and as loud as he.

I turned in my saddle once more and looked up the road. Through the
hot sun plodded the three figures: the chevalier with bent head and, I
doubted not, with gnashing teeth. I waved my hand toward him and
called, though he could neither see nor hear:

"Good-by, Chevalier Le Moyne; this cancels a few debts!"

I have never seen him since.




CHAPTER XXIX

UNDER THE OLD FLAG

    "And many an eye has danced to see
      That banner in the sky."


It was in the early days of March, some eight months later, that the
big barge in which I had come down the Ohio, and thus far on the
Mississippi, put me ashore at New Madrid with my saddle-bags and my
horse Bourbon Prince; for so I had promptly named the black beauty for
whom I had exchanged my chestnut mare. He could never quite take the
place of Fatima in my affections, but I had grown very fond of him:
partly for his virtues, for he was a thoroughbred of famous lineage,
and partly, I have no doubt, because he had once belonged to
mademoiselle.

Of mademoiselle I had not heard for many months. I had arrived at home
in the late summer, to find my father a physical and almost a mental
wreck from the stroke of paralysis that had laid him low nearly three
months before. Yet I had never loved my strong, stern father in the
prime of manhood, managing great business enterprises, occupying
places of honor and responsibility in the State, as I loved this
feeble and broken old man with the face and the manner of a little
child. As the weeks went on and he gradually grew able to move about,
it was my pride and my joy to walk slowly down Chestnut Street, my
father leaning heavily on my arm, and looking up into my face to
comment with childish delight upon whatever pleased him in the
streets.

I had had to assume, to the best of my ability, his heavy business
responsibilities, and the charge of his great properties, and but that
my mother was herself a fine business woman and thoroughly informed on
my father's affairs I might have made shipwreck of it all. It was not
the life I had chosen for myself, but it lay so directly in the path
of duty there was no escaping it, and it kept every moment so fully
occupied there was no time left for brooding over private troubles.

I had received a letter from the Prince de Polignac about two weeks
after my return home, telling me of the safe arrival in Baden of the
Comtesse de Baloit. It was a very courteous letter, thanking me once
more for the great services I had rendered them on that eventful night
in the Chantilly parks, and inclosing a pleasant message of
acknowledgment from the Duc d'Enghien for the kindness shown his
cousin the countess. Mademoiselle had added a line in her own writing:

     "Fatima is well, and I love her for the sake of dear old St.
     Louis.

                    PELAGIE."

To most people that might seem a very common-place little message; to
me those sixteen words were the most wonderful ever written. I twisted
and turned them until each one became a volume of tender sentiments,
and the little signature "Pelagie" almost too sacred to be looked at,
and only to be kissed, shut up in my own room in the dark, or with
none but the moon to see.

I had replied to the prince's letter immediately, sending a courteous
message to the duke and a special one to Pelagie about Clotilde, whom
I had sent under safe escort to St. Louis. But although I had
intimated to the prince that it would give me very great pleasure to
hear occasionally of the welfare of the countess, I never heard from
any of them again.

This, of course, was an especial grief to me on Pelagie's account, but
also it touched me a little that the prince should so soon have
forgotten me and what he was pleased to term my "great services" to
him, for I had been strongly attracted to him by his noble bearing and
chivalrous protection of mademoiselle. Often, in thinking of them,--he
a noble young prince of great manly beauty and endowed by nature with
all charming and lovable qualities; she the most exquisite of
womankind,--I thought it would be strange indeed if in the intimate
companionship of that long ride together they had not become so deeply
interested in each other as to forget the existence of a young
American gentleman three thousand miles away.

When in the winter there came news of the Cadoudal plots against the
life of Napoleon, in which the young Prince de Polignac and his older
brother the duke were involved; that both brothers had been arrested,
tried, and condemned to death; and, later, that Napoleon had granted
them a free pardon, I could easily believe that other interests than
love and marriage had so absorbed the prince as to make him forgetful
of a distant acquaintance.

On the heels of this appalling news, which shook the world and which
yet left me glad and grateful that the chivalrous young prince had
been saved from the ignominious death of an assassin, there came a
letter to me from Captain Clarke, written in St. Louis, inviting me to
join the expedition of discovery and exploration which Mr. Meriwether
Lewis and he were to conduct up the Missouri River and across the
mountains.

Few duties have come to me in life more difficult to perform than the
writing of that letter declining the invitation. It was the life I
longed for, to be had for the taking, and an expedition of such kind
under the leadership of two men like my captain, whom I still adored,
and Mr. Meriwether Lewis, whom I greatly admired, was the strongest
temptation that could be presented to me.

But I knew well it was not for me. It would, no doubt, be a year or
two in the accomplishing, with many hazards to life and limb, and I
was now the virtual head of the family, with mother and sisters and
invalid father all looking to me for protection and guidance and
comfort. No, it was not to be thought of.

Without consulting any one I sent my answer, but I suppose my face was
an open book to my dear mother, and in some moment of abstraction I
had forgotten to be cheerful and so betrayed that something was
troubling me. At any rate, she came to my room one night, and there,
in the way that mothers have, she beguiled my secret from me. She
agreed with me that it would never do in my father's state of health
to join such an expedition, but she was greatly distressed for what
she called my disappointment, though I tried to assure her it was not
enough to think about.

Now mothers have a way of finding a salve for every hurt. I suppose it
is a talent God has given them, that this world may be a pleasanter
place for living in, and that the rugged path we have to tread through
it may be smoother and pleasanter to our feet. (Though I hope no one
will think because I have said this that I am one of those long-faced
people who think this world a vale of woes to be traversed as quickly
as possible, looking neither to the right nor to the left, lest they
see something to please their eyes. I have ever found it a pleasant
world, and my path through it of exceeding interest, with some sorrows
and many difficulties to test one's mettle and add to the zest of
living; but also with many wonderful and beautiful things lying all
along the path, that God has placed there that one may stop and enjoy
them and rest by the wayside.)

Now the salve my mother found for this hurt was one to my especial
liking.

"Though you could not be gone from home two or three years, my son,"
she said, "a matter of two or three months could make no great
difference to any one; why not go out to St. Louis, see your friends
there, and help the expedition get under way?"

My heart gave a great leap. "And get news of mademoiselle from Dr.
Saugrain," I said to myself; but then I hesitated. Would my father
miss me too sadly? for he had seemed to lean upon me much for comfort
and companionship. When I expressed my fears to my mother, she
hesitated also, but we both finally agreed we would leave it to her to
broach the matter to my father, and if it seemed to distress him too
greatly, we would say nothing more about it.

To my surprise, he was almost more eager for it than my mother. It
need not have surprised me, for even in the old days my father, though
stern, had never been selfish, and now all the unselfishness of his
nature had seemed to grow strong with his feebleness.

Thus it was that I stood once more on the shores of the Great River.
Had my impatience permitted me to wait a little longer at Pittsburg, I
might have found a boat going all the way to St. Louis, but I had
rather take the ride of nearly a hundred and fifty miles on Bourbon
(for so I had shortened his name) than to spend a day in idle waiting.
A barge going to New Orleans (New Orleans had been under our flag
since the twentieth of December, and the river was teeming with craft
bearing our merchandise to the once prohibited market) took me on
board and put me ashore at New Madrid in the early morning, and I lost
not a moment's time in getting started on my northward way.

The spring was early that year, and in the warm and sheltered valley,
lying open to the south, where New Madrid nestles, the orchards were
already a pink and white glory, and in the forest glades the wild
azaleas and the dogwood were just ready to burst into bloom. Riding
under leafy archways of tall trees garlanded with wild vines, or
through natural meadows dotted with clumps of shrubbery, as if set out
by the hand of man for a park, where the turf was like velvet under
Bourbon's feet; crossing little streams that a sudden rush of
headwater from the hills had swollen to dangerous torrents, or other
streams that backwater from the Great River had converted into inland
lakes; the air sweet with the fragrance of the wild crab and
blossoming grape; wood-thrush and oriole, meadow-lark and
cardinal-bird, making the woods ring with their melodies--this ride
through Upper Louisiana in the early springtime was one long joy to
eye and ear and nostril. Farther north the spring was less advanced,
only little leaves on the trees, and for flowers a carpet, sometimes
extending for miles, of creamy-white spring-beauties, streaked with
rosy pink, laid down for Bourbon's feet to tread upon; and for birds
the modest song-sparrow and bluebird, earliest harbingers of spring.

I stayed the first night in Cape Girardeau (and thought of the
chevalier in hiding for weeks among the Osages near by); the second
night I spent with the Vallés in Ste. Genevieve. I had known young
François Vallé in St. Louis the winter before, and meeting me on the
street as I rode into town, he carried me off at once to his father's
house with true Louisiana hospitality--a hospitality that welcomed the
coming but did not speed the parting guest. I found it hard work to
get away the next morning, with such friendly insistence did they urge
me to remain for a visit, seeming to feel also that I was putting a
slight upon their quaint old town--the oldest in Upper Louisiana--by
so short a stay.

But I was impatient to be on my way, and my impatience grew as I
neared St. Louis. A long day's ride brought me toward evening to the
banks of the Maramec, full to the brim of its high banks with
backwater from the Mississippi. I thought, at first, I would have to
swim it, but, fortunately, I spied a horn hanging from the limb of a
sycamore above my head, and I knew enough of the ways of this frontier
country to know that a horn by a river-bank meant a ferry. So I blew
it lustily, and in five minutes there appeared from under the
overhanging trees of the opposite bank a flatboat, paddled by an old
man, who not only ferried Bourbon and me safely across dry-shod, but
persuaded me to spend the night with him in his little cabin; for the
night was coming on cloudy and dark, and there were still nearly
twenty miles to ride, and swollen streams to cross that might mean
trouble in the dark. He had not the great house of the Vallés, with
troops of slaves to wait on us and an abundance of frontier luxuries
(for Mr. François Vallé, Sr., was the richest man in all that country)
but his hospitality was as genuine. For the ferriage he took money,
since that was his business; for the night's lodging and supper and
breakfast he would have none of it. True, my bed was only a bearskin
on the hard floor, and my supper and breakfast were the same,--a slice
of bacon and a bowl of hominy,--but such as he had he gave me of his
best.

In the early dawn I had a plunge in the Maramec for bath (and its
waters had the icy tang of the melting snows on the distant
mountains), and then I made a careful toilet, for in a few hours I
would see my old friends in St. Louis, and, at thought of the merry
glances from bright eyes I would soon be meeting, my heart sank within
me that Pelagie's would not be among them.

As I neared St. Louis, every step of the way was full of reminders of
her. Crossing La Petite Rivière, I thought of the day of the picnic on
Chouteau's Pond, and involuntarily I listened for the call of the
whippoorwill. But instead there was the happy song of the spring birds
filling the woods that crested the banks, and my heart grew lighter in
response to their joyous melodies.

I entered the town by the lower entrance, leading through the stockade
on to the Rue Royale, for I was of a mind to ride through the streets
of the town and see whom I should chance to meet before presenting
myself at Dr. Saugrain's.

I had advanced no great distance when I saw coming to meet me a
splendid procession: young men and maidens, parents and children, the
whole population of the town, I should think, in gala array, and
singing as they came.

I was overwhelmed at the prospect of such honor accorded me, and
greatly touched, too, that my old friends should welcome me back so
gladly, but I was in a quandary what to do: whether it would be more
dignified to stay Bourbon in the middle of the road and await their
approach, or whether to advance to meet them.

It puzzled me greatly, also, that they should have known the exact
moment of my arrival, for although both Dr. Saugrain and Captain
Clarke knew of my intended visit, they could hardly have calculated to
such a nicety not only the day but the very hour of my entry into
town. It must be that pickets had been stationed to descry my approach
from a distance and give the signal.

Still puzzling my brains over the wonder of it all, and hardly knowing
whether to feel more proud or more frightened at the honor intended
me, and wishing with all my heart that I had known of it that I might
have arrayed myself in a costume befitting the occasion, I slowly drew
near the procession, and the procession drew near me.

Then suddenly I discovered what nothing but my domtiferous vanity had
prevented me from discerning from the first: this was a religious
procession bearing the banners of the church and singing Aves and Te
Deums. I had known such processions before in St. Louis on saints'
days, and always headed by the two most beautiful maidens in the town,
bearing silver plates, who, as the procession drew up to the church,
stood on either side of the door holding the plates to receive alms. I
drew Bourbon to one side of the road and waited.

Yes, there were the two beautiful maidens with the silver plates, and
I was not surprised to see that one was Mademoiselle Chouteau; and as
she drew near she could not resist a saucy look of recognition in her
dancing eyes, entirely out of character in the leader of a religious
procession. I smiled back at her, my heart already growing warmer and
lighter with her friendliness, and then I glanced at the other: a wavy
mass of soft, dark hair, little ringlets about white neck and brow,
lips like a scarlet pomegranate blossom, and long, black lashes lying
on an ivory cheek, where the pale rose was fast turning to crimson
under my gaze.

It was Pelagie! Her cheek told the tale that she knew I was looking at
her, yet not once did she lift her eyes and look at me. I wonder that
my heart did not break through my breast, so great a bound it made
when I discovered her, and then all the blood in my body flowed back
upon it, and I sat on Bourbon as one carved in marble, while friends
and acquaintances passed by and smiled up at me in kindly welcome. Not
until Josef Papin left the ranks and came up to me with outstretched
hand could I recover myself and begin to feel alive again, with the
blood slowly running back in its courses and tingling in my
finger-tips.

"Come," he said, when the first greetings were over, "tie your horse
to the tree, and we will fall in at the end of the line and go up to
the church together. This is no saint's day, as you might think, but
we are to have mass for the last time under the old rule. The United
States troops come over to-day from Cahokia and take possession."

This was wonderful news to me, and I could not but feel a great
sympathy with him, for he spoke with a voice that faltered. What would
it not have meant to me if my own city of Philadelphia were being
transferred to the rule of France or Spain!

On our way he told me what my soul most longed to hear: how
mademoiselle came to be in St. Louis.

Her cousin, the Duc d'Enghien, had begun to feel that his home was no
longer a safe place for her, for Bonaparte's spies were watching him,
and he felt that though Baden was neutral territory he might at any
moment be arrested and thrown into prison. That would leave Pelagie
entirely unprotected, and he had begun to consider some other safer
retreat for her. When mademoiselle found that she was to be sent away
from Ettenheim, she begged that she might return to St. Louis, the
only place she had known as home, and to the people she loved, who had
been to her kindred and friends. It was only after much pleading that
the duke had been persuaded to let her go so far from home again, but
mademoiselle's heart was set on it.

"And," said Josef Papin, "as we both know, when she will, she will; I
defy any man to gainsay her. She arrived two weeks ago by way of New
Orleans, with a Monsieur and Madame Dubois, newly married, I believe,
who were coming over to America to settle."

"Monsieur and Madame Dubois!" I said, in some excitement.

"Yes; do you know them?" asked Josef, curiously.

"I am not sure. I may have met them; I met a Monsieur and Madame
Dubois once at Chantilly near Paris," I answered carelessly, "but very
likely they are not the same."

"No, they could not be," answered Josef, "for they were married only
just before leaving for America."

And then there was no chance to say anything more, for our end of the
procession was nearing the church door, where on either side stood
Mademoiselle Chouteau and Pelagie, holding out their silver plates
already piled high with livres.

As I glanced at Pelagie I felt as if royalty radiated from her--from
the proud pose of her dainty head to the high-bred arch of her little
foot. "A princess of Condé!" I exclaimed to myself half angrily, "and
meekly holding the church plate for negroes and Indians and humble
habitans, and smiling up into the faces of her old friends with a
royal sweetness."

I was on the side next her as we drew near the door. Will she look at
me? I wondered. We were the last in the line; it would hinder no one
if I stopped a moment beside her.

But I could not make her look up at me. One louis d'or after another I
piled upon her plate, but the only effect it had was to make it
tremble in her hands and the color deepen steadily in her face. I
could not stand there gazing rudely at her, and I went into the church
beside Josef Papin as in a dream, half doubting it was mademoiselle,
yet watching her eagerly as she and Mademoiselle Chouteau bore the
plates up the aisle and held them aloft before the altar for the
priest to bless.

The service that followed was indescribably solemn and touched me
greatly; it was as though it were a service for the dead, and the
people (the whole village was there, every man, woman, and child I had
known the year before) chanted the responses with the tears running
down their cheeks. Josef Papin had told me that the old priest who had
baptized all the younger generation and married their parents was
going away with the Spaniards, unwilling to be subject to a foreign
rule, and the mourning of the people for their father was from the
heart.

As they knelt upon the floor to receive the benediction (and the sound
of their kneeling was like the breeze among the dry leaves of autumn)
they broke out into a long, low wail that rose and swelled and then
died away in the sound of suppressed sobbing. Nevermore under Latin
rule would they kneel in their dear old church, but under the rule of
the hated Anglo-Saxons, their hereditary foe. Nevermore would the
priest they had loved and reverenced for years extend his hands over
them in blessing. The good father's voice broke again and again as he
tried in vain to utter the familiar words, until at length, his hands
upraised to heaven, tears streaming from his eyes, he uttered the
simple words, "Go in peace, my children."

I was near the door and I slipped quietly out. It was not a time to
meet old friends, and I felt like one intruding upon a house of
mourning. Heads were still bowed in the solemn hush that followed the
benediction and no one saw me go. I hurried back to where I had left
Bourbon, mounted him, and rode slowly up toward Government House.

Long before I reached it the streets were filled. With the quick
change from grave to gay, natural to these volatile creoles, the same
people that a few moments ago had been all tears and sorrow were now
all excitement and curiosity. Down from the fort on the hill marched a
troop of Spanish soldiers, stopping at Government House to salute the
governor, and then forming in company order in front of the house to
await the coming of the United States troops.

Beside Governor Delassus on the gallery of Government House stood my
old friend Mr. Meriwether Lewis; for he seemed an old friend to me,
though I had known him but that one memorable day in Washington. In
response to a friendly wave of the hand from both I dismounted and ran
up the steps to speak to them for a moment. They presented me to a
third officer, Captain Stoddard, the officer in command of the United
States troops who were to take possession, and also, as Governor
Delassus informed me, empowered by the French prefect at New Orleans
to receive the city for the French republic from the Spanish.

I stayed only a moment, for Captain Lewis told me I would find Captain
Clarke and Dr. Saugrain at the landing at the foot of the Rue
Bonhomme, so I followed in the wake of the motley crowd of habitans,
negroes, and Indians trooping along the Rue Royale and filling La
Place with a many-colored throng, as they had filled it on the day I
first set foot in St. Louis.

Bourbon Prince picked his way carefully along the steep path that led
down the bluff to the landing at the foot of the Rue Bonhomme, where
the boats from Cahokia bearing the United States troops were already
approaching the shore, and where I found awaiting them, as Captain
Lewis had said I should, my old friend, the little doctor, and my
captain (for so I shall always call Captain Clarke), and the warmth of
their greeting set my heart to dancing merrily.

My spirits had been rising steadily every moment since I had recovered
from my stupefaction at the sight of Pelagie. What though she would
not look at me, I was nothing daunted; for now that she was safe on
American soil,--yes, _American_, Spanish no longer,--nor chevaliers
nor dukes nor First Consuls should deter me from boldly trying to win
her. For the first time since I had known her I felt that I had a
right to try. She was no longer a titled lady of France, and I was now
my own master and could maintain her in greater luxury than she had
ever known. I would take her home with me to Philadelphia! and my
dear mother and my fond old father would love her as they loved my
sisters. My spirit was exultant, and that she dared not meet my eyes
lent more of hope than discouragement.

So it was with a happy heart that I met the little doctor's beaming
glance, and felt the strong grasp of my captain's hand as he uttered
his hearty "Welcome home, my lad." And little I cared that he called
me lad; indeed, had he addressed me by any other title I should have
missed some of the friendliness of his greeting.

"You are to stay at Émigré's Retreat, you know," said Dr. Saugrain;
"Madame Saugrain is as happy in the thought of your home-coming as if
you were her own boy."

But Josef Papin coming down the bluff at that moment and overhearing
the doctor, interposed:

"No, Dr. Saugrain, he is my guest this time. You had him all last
winter, and you have had Captain Clarke and Captain Lewis all this
winter; you must share some of your honors with me."

It was not for me to decide a question of such kind, and though my
heart turned longingly to the hospitable hearth that had first
entertained me in St. Louis, feeling that in no other house would it
seem so truly a home-coming, yet I was not sure but it was better that
it was finally decided that I should stay with Josef Papin, for I was
determined to put my fortune to the touch, and should Pelagie prove
unkind (a contingency, however, that I refused to contemplate), it
would be embarrassing indeed to be under the same roof with her.

But now there was no longer time for discussion of any kind, for the
boats were running their keels into the bank, and Lieutenant Worrall,
temporarily in command of the troops, was the first man to leap
ashore. We all went down to meet him, and when he had formed his
battalion in line, we accompanied him up the steep bluff and down the
Rue Royale to Government House, a great throng following.

Then Lieutenant Worrall drew up his troops facing the Spanish troops.
The open space where the Rue Royale crossed the Rue de la Tour was
densely packed with people. Every man, woman, and child of the
village, it seemed to me, must be there, yet I looked in vain for
either Madame Saugrain or Pelagie. I fastened Bourbon farther up the
street, and at the invitation of Governor Delassus sent us by an
orderly I accompanied Dr. Saugrain, Josef Papin, and my captain to the
gallery of Government House, where we found also both the Chouteaus
and many of the leading citizens of the village.

As soon as the American troops were drawn up in line, Governor
Delassus stepped to the front of the gallery, holding in his hand a
document bearing the seals of the United States and of Spain, and at a
sign from him, Captain Stoddard stepped to his side, a similar
document in his hand. Then Governor Delassus held the paper up so that
all the people might see, and, as every voice was hushed and all eyes
turned on him, he read:

     "Now be it known unto all men by these presents that I,
     Carlos D. Delassus, in quality of lieutenant-governor, at
     the requirement duly made to me by Amos Stoddard, agent and
     commissary of the French republic, have delivered to him the
     full possession, sovereignty, and government of Upper
     Louisiana, with all the military posts, quarters, and
     fortifications thereto belonging or dependent thereof."

     Immediately Captain Stoddard took up the refrain, reading on
     from where the governor stopped:

     "And I, Amos Stoddard, commissary as such, do acknowledge to
     have received the said possession on the same terms
     mentioned in these presents, of which I acknowledge myself
     satisfied and possessed on this day. In testimony whereof
     the lieutenant-governor and myself have respectively signed
     these presents, sealed with the seal of our arms, being
     assisted with the witnesses signed below. Of which
     proceedings six copies have been made out, to wit, three in
     the Spanish and three in the English languages.

     "Given in the town of St. Louis of Illinois, 9th March,
     1804.

            "Amos Stoddard            (seal)

            "Carlos Dehault Delassus  (seal)

     "In presence of
       Meriwether Lewis,
         Captain First United States Regiment Infantry.
       Antoine Soulard,
         Surveyor-General, etc.
       Charles Gratiot."

As Captain Stoddard finished reading, the governor turned to him and
with formal courtesy placed him in possession of Government House.
Captain Stoddard accepted it with a brief and appropriate speech, and
then, the silence still unbroken, the stately don turned once more to
the people and spoke to them directly:

"Inhabitants of Upper Louisiana:

"By the king's command I am about to deliver up this post and its
dependencies!

"The flag under which you have been protected for a period of nearly
thirty-six years is to be withdrawn. From this moment you are released
from the oath of fidelity you took to support it."

There was a stir among the people. Tears were running down the
weather-beaten faces of some of the older men, and many of the women
were sobbing quietly. Visibly moved himself, the governor added
another word:

"The fidelity and courage with which you have guarded and defended the
flag will never be forgotten; and in my character of representative I
entertain the most sincere wishes for your perfect prosperity."

The governor bowed and stepped back, and instantly there broke from
the people a storm of _adios_ and _benitos_ with tears and waving of
hands.

The governor motioned to a soldier standing by. The soldier stepped to
a corner of the gallery which could be seen from the fort on the hill,
and waved his hat. Instantly puffs of white smoke issued from the
full battery of the fort, followed by the roar of the cannon rolling
across the wide river to the distant bluffs of Cahokia. As the last
echo died away the soldier waved his hat once more. Slowly the flag of
Spain floating above the white tower sank. Once more the cannon
roared, and slowly the banner of France rose, higher and higher, until
its folds were flung proudly to the breeze, above the tower on the
hill, above the Great River, above the old French town where it had
floated thirty-six years before.

Almost every soul, save negroes and Indians, in that multitude
watching in breathless silence the exchange of the flags, was French,
and as the banner of the land they had never ceased to love and to
call home floated out on the breeze, with one accord they fell on
their knees, eyes streaming, arms outstretched toward the loved symbol
of their fatherland.

It had been the intention that the flag should remain there but a few
minutes--just long enough to show that Upper Louisiana was French, and
that France ceded it to the United States. But now Pierre and Auguste
Chouteau, the older Papin, Dr. Saugrain, all the leading citizens on
the gallery of Government House, gathered around Captain Stoddard and
begged him, with trembling voices and misty eyes, to let the old flag
stay for another day.

"Let us be Frenchmen for twenty-four hours," they begged, "and after
that we will try to be loyal citizens of the United States, as we have
been loyal citizens of Spain."

When Captain Lewis and Captain Clarke added their plea for the
Frenchmen, Captain Stoddard willingly granted it, and stepping to the
front of the gallery, he announced that for twenty-four hours the flag
of the French republic would float over St. Louis.

Then broke forth a delirium of joy. Men threw their arms around one
another and embraced and kissed in a fashion strange, indeed, to us
Anglo-Saxons; and women fell into one another's arms and sobbed. The
roar of the cannon had not ceased to roll over the heads of the people
at intervals of every two minutes, and now the United States troops
took their line of march up the Rue de la Tour to the fort on the hill
(for though the American flag did not float from it, they were to hold
it in the name of France); and the Spanish troops marched away.

The ceremonies for the day were over; the cannon ceased to roar, and
Captain Stoddard who was now in possession of Government House,
invited us all to stay to déjeuner. The meal was a long and
ceremonious one, with the Spanish don on Captain Stoddard's right and
one of the Chouteaus on his left, and I far down the table with some
of the younger men; and through it all I was thinking of that first
meal I had taken in St. Louis in this same Government House a year and
a half before, and of the toast that roused such enthusiasm then; and
every moment my impatience grew to get away and visit Émigré's Retreat
and Madame Saugrain, and--the Rose of St. Louis.




CHAPTER XXX

THE ROSE OF ST. LOUIS

    "What's in a name? that which we call a rose
    By any other name would smell as sweet."


But my impatience was of little avail, for before we left Government
House Dr. Saugrain invited me to dinner at Émigré's Retreat, and
restless and impatient as I might be, I did not dare show myself there
until the dinner-hour.

Five o'clock found me sitting in the dear old living-room, awaiting,
with trembling the entrance of madame and Pelagie. It was the same
dear old room I had pictured to myself so often, and all the grand
salons of Paris that I had seen since last I saw it did not make it
look any the less cozy and homelike to my eyes. It was a warm spring
afternoon, and the western windows were open, and the white curtains
were stirring in the breeze, only there was no maiden in white on the
low seat by the window, and no guitar and no Leon.

I had but a moment to wait. The door opened and in came madame, both
hands outstretched and running to meet me, and as I bent low before
her, taking my face in both her hands and putting a kiss on my cheek
and calling me "My son." And behind her came Pelagie, walking slowly
but looking up at me, yes, looking at me at last, with starry eyes and
a great pulse throbbing in her snowy throat, and little tongues of
color coming and going in her cheeks. I was almost of a mind there,
right before madame, to take her in my arms and call her mine, for
mine I was determined she should be; and I looked at her with such a
threatening glance I think she divined my half-purpose and shrank back
a little.

So instead I merely bowed over her hand and said gaily:

"You condescend to look at me at last, mademoiselle; I feared to-day I
was to be forever banished from your friendly glances."

And she, relieved from her first apprehension, answered saucily:

"If monsieur comes unannounced, how can he expect to be recognized
after so many months of absence?"

And then in stalked, majestically Leon, limping very slightly, and
when he caught sight of me coming up to me and sniffing at me a
moment, and then springing upon me with such wild bounds of delight
that I had to call hold, lest his great paws play havoc with my fine
Paris clothes that I had donned in mademoiselle's honor. And to quiet
him I said in a high, small voice, in palpable burlesque of
mademoiselle:

"Taise-toi, mon ange!" and we both laughed merrily.

I was so happy that I was ready to do everything that was foolish,
and I believe mademoiselle was happy, too, for nothing that I did was
too foolish for her to laugh at.

Then in came the little doctor, running up to me and insisting on
embracing me (because I was in his own house), pulling down my head
and kissing me on each cheek, at which I blushed greatly, though I had
not blushed when madame kissed me. And then came my captain and
Captain Lewis, and everyone talked at once, asking all manner of
questions on all manner of subjects, and I had scarcely a chance to
say another word to Pelagie.

And then came dinner. As usual, madame put me beside her, and Pelagie
sat at the other end of the table. But there was no scorning this
time, and I had better chance to look at her than if she sat beside
me, and perhaps that was best, for my eyes could say to her much more
than my lips would dare in such a company.

Narcisse waited on the table, and was all smiles of welcome; and
half-way through dinner, on some pretext or other, in came Clotilde,
and greeted me, half crying through her smiles at memory of our trials
together. And last of all came Yorke, grinning from ear to ear, and
"declarin' to gracious I'd growed a foot sence," whereupon I was of a
mind to thrash him on the spot, and told him so, which made him grin
the more, if that were possible.

It was a grand dinner, and I told Madame Saugrain I had never tasted
in Paris anything half so good as her wild turkey and croquecignolles
and gooseberry wine, which I meant with all my heart, and which
greatly pleased her housewifely soul.

Back in the living-room, when dinner was over, I missed something, and
looked around the room to discover what it was. It was the long French
mirror in which I had once watched Pelagie--the pride of madame's
heart.

"Why, madame," I said, "what have you done with your mirror?"

She shrugged her shoulders and looked ruefully at her husband.

"Antoine," she said, "needed some quicksilver for his experiments.
Voilà! my mirror!"

I glanced at Dr. Saugrain; he blushed and looked guilty, and so, for
some reason, I thought, did Captain Lewis.

"I will explain," said my captain. "You must know, my lad, that these
two," indicating the doctor and Captain Lewis with a wave of his hand,
"have been confederates all winter in black art. They have lived in
the laboratory, and the instruments they have evolved for our trip up
the Missouri and over the mountains are fearful and wonderful to
behold. We are each of us provided with a box of little phosphorus
sticks by which we are to do away entirely with all use of tinder. But
much more wonderful than those, out of madame's mirror Dr. Saugrain
has fashioned little glass tubes holding quicksilver, and with a
measure laid off on the side by which we may be able to tell just how
hot or how cold it may be. And more wonderful still, he has fashioned
other little tubes by which we are to tell when it is going to storm
and when it will be fair weather. And I cannot begin to tell you all
the wonderful appliances this magician has fashioned for our comfort
and safety this winter, aided and abetted by his willing slave,
Captain Lewis."

That unloosed the doctor's tongue, and there was no getting away the
rest of the evening from the wonders of science; and so strange were
the things he and Captain Lewis had to tell of what science could do
that I could have greatly enjoyed their talk had I not been longing
for a few words with Pelagie.

I determined that another day should not go by; without my having
them, and so, in the course of the evening, I managed to ask her if
she would ride with me the next afternoon to Chouteau's Pond. A
riding-party of two to Chouteau's Pond was of frequent occurrence in
the village, and I would not have feared a refusal but that Pelagie
had now been living so long where stricter social forms prevailed, so
I awaited her answer with trembling. But she gave a shy assent, and
for me the evening at Émigré's Retreat was a grand success.

Twelve o'clock the next day, March the tenth, saw us all once more at
Government House; and once more the American troops were drawn up
before it, and once more the people filled the streets.

The people were very quiet; there was no longer any rejoicing; but
every eye was lifted to the flag that was so soon to sink from sight.

There were many Indians in the streets,--Delawares, Sacs, Shawnees,
and others,--attracted to the town by the noise of firing the day
before. Captain Stoddard had asked Governor Delassus to speak to them
and explain to them the change of government, and the soldiers had
been sent to gather them up close to the gallery of Government House,
where Don Delassus might speak to them. A dark-faced throng, serious
of countenance, they stood looking up at us, not a muscle of their
countenances changing while the governor spoke to them in the formal
and stately fashion they loved.

"Delawares, Sacs, Shawnees, and others, my red brothers:

"Your old fathers, the Spaniard and the Frenchman, grasp by the hand
your new father, the head chief of the United States. By an act of
their good-will, and in virtue of their last treaty, I have delivered
up to them all these lands. They will keep and defend them, and
protect all the white and redskins who live thereon. You will live as
happily as if the Spaniard were still here.

"I have informed your new father, who here takes my place, that the
Delawares, Shawnees, and Sacs have always conducted themselves well;
that the chiefs have always restrained their young men as much as
possible.

"For several days we have fired off cannon to announce to all the
nations that your father the Spaniard is going, his heart happy to
know that you will be protected and sustained by your new father, and
that the smoke of the powder may ascend to the Maker of life, praying
him to shower on you all a happy destiny and prosperity in always
living in good union with the whites."

There were many guttural "Ughs!" as he finished, and I think, from the
way the dark eyes scanned the faces of the new officers, they
comprehended at least a part of what had been said to them.

Once more a soldier at the corner of the gallery waved his hat toward
the white tower; once more the cannon boomed and slowly the tricolor
of France descended, while the Stars and Stripes rose to meet it.
Half-way up the flagstaff they stopped. For a moment they floated in
the breeze, side by side, and an involuntary cheer sprang from the
people at the friendly sight. Then slowly the tricolor sank, and
slowly rose the starry banner, flinging out its broad bars of white
and crimson, beautiful emblem of liberty and the sovereignty of a free
people, over the little village, nestling among the trees on the
bluffs, that may one day be a mighty city; over the Great River
flowing to the Gulf that a not far future may see bearing the commerce
of a world on its bosom; over the broad prairies stretching to the
distant mountains which coming years will surely see peopled with
happy millions.

My heart swelled within me. I swung my hat high in the air and lustily
led the cheers of our troops and our little party on the gallery. But
we were only a small band, and we made not much noise, and all the
French and Spaniards stood and looked sadly on. And because our hearts
were touched by their sorrow, we cheered no more, but looked up at
our beautiful banner with pride and joy and love in our hearts.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three hours later I was sitting on the gallery at Émigré's Retreat
waiting for mademoiselle, as I had waited for her on the day of the
picnic at Chouteau's Pond. Narcisse was holding Bourbon Prince by the
driveway below, and I was struggling to preserve a calm exterior, for
my heart was going like a trip-hammer while I listened for my lady's
coming.

Out upon the gallery she stepped, riding-habit and hat and veil of
latest Paris mode--not the little Pelagie of the picnic day, but
Pelagie a princess of Condé, and my heart almost failed me.

I looked at her, and she was smiling at me with a smile I did not
understand. Then she looked away, and my eyes followed hers. Around
the corner of the house Yorke was leading a horse,--a white star on
the forehead and one white foot like Bourbon Prince, but beautiful
chestnut in color. For a moment I forgot my lady. Down the steps I
sprang, and my arm was around the neck of the chestnut mare.

"Sweetheart!" I whispered in her ear. "Do you know me, sweetheart?"

She whinnied with joy and rubbed her soft muzzle up and down my arm,
and whinnied again, while Yorke showed all his teeth in his delight,
and my lady laughed and clapped her hands like a happy child.

I had not thought it possible she could bring Fatima with her and so
had not asked for her, though, truth to tell, I had had but little
chance to ask her about anything.

When I said so to her, "I would not have come without her," she said,
looking shyly at me. "But I hope you do not want her back, for I love
her dearly."

Yes, I wanted her back, I said to myself; but with her mistress, too;
but my only answer to mademoiselle was a smile that I think she
understood, for she looked quickly away from me.

Then I put her on Fatima's back, who bore a Parisian saddle now
instead of a pillion, and out through the stockade we rode, and down
the rough path to La Petite Rivière, and through the ford (deeper now,
from spring freshets, than it had been when I listened to the
whippoorwills), and along the wooded bank on the other side, where we
had raced to get away from the redskin (though that she never knew),
and still I had not said the words I meant to say.

Under the tree that had been the goal for our race I drew up a minute.
Here, I thought, will be a place of happy omen, for here I won my
first dance with her, and here I will win her. But suddenly I recalled
that this was the spot where I had first seen the chevalier; no, it
was of evil omen. "By hairbreadth escapes we always win," he had said.
I feared, the "luck of the Le Moynes" and their baleful motto.

Where we had stopped to look at the lake before, I stopped again. It
was almost more beautiful in its setting of the soft pinks and greens
of early spring than it had been under the golden sun of autumn, and
here, I thought, I will say it. But the glimpse of the ivied mill
tower among the trees, and the beautiful water and its wooded banks,
reminded Pelagie of Ettenheim, and she began to tell me of a letter
she had just received from the Duc d'Enghien, which made her very
anxious.

"He writes," said Pelagie, "that he is being followed everywhere by an
Englishman who, he feels sure, is a spy in the pay of Bonaparte--I
will never call him emperor!" said Pelagie, with fiery eye. "And while
he says he feels no alarm for himself, he is more and more glad to
think that I am so safely away from all dangers."

But the thought of her letter had saddened Pelagie for a while, and I
would not speak then. How little we dreamed that on that very day,
perhaps at that very hour, the young duke was being seized by
Napoleon's emissaries, in violation of all treaties of neutrality, and
hurried to the gloomy fortress of Vincennes, where, ten days later,
after a mock trial of two hours in the dead of night, with no chance
of defense given him, he was taken out and shot and buried in the
trench where he fell. When the dreadful news reached us, weeks later,
it darkened for a while my sweet Pelagie's life, as it was the one
crime not even the friends of Napoleon can excuse or forgive: the one
dark blot on his fame time will never erase.

But that afternoon we were in happy ignorance of what was happening
four thousand miles away, and Pelagie's sadness was but a passing
shadow and in a little while we were both joyous again.

"Rock Spring," I thought, "beloved of lovers, will be the place." But
at Rock Spring I could think of nothing but Yorke astride the
chevalier's back, the grimy spectacle the chevalier presented when
Yorke was dislodged, and then the fearful peril Pelagie had been in
when I fled with her in my arms on Fatima's back. No, Rock Spring was
not the place.

And so we were once more back at the ford, almost home, and the long
shadows lying on the cool water, and a thrush singing his evening-song
in the wooded crests behind us, and my tale had not been told. We had
had much sweet converse, and many times the words were on my lips, but
somehow--I know not how--Pelagie always managed to turn me aside. At
least I think she did, for with the words on my lips I would find
myself talking of something else.

Now, as our horses swashed their noses in the cool water, and sent the
bright drops in showers about us, I looked down upon her, the dark
green of her riding-habit making a rich foil to the soft glow of her
cheek, and the drooping plume of her hat falling over her snowy neck
and mingling with the dark ringlets, and one little hand from which
she had drawn the glove playing with Fatima's tawny mane--and I took a
sudden resolution.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "do you know that to-day you are no longer a
proud lady of France, but a simple American maiden?"

She looked up at me, startled. I think she knew what was coming, but
she answered bravely, though softly:

"Yes, monsieur," and then dropped her eyes and fell to playing with
Fatima's mane again.

"Mademoiselle, do you remember on La Belle Rivière the wager you would
not let me make?"

"Yes, monsieur," still more softly.

"Mademoiselle, if I had made that wager then I would have won it
to-day. You taught me better, and I would not win you by a wager now
if I could. But oh, mademoiselle, you said by worth and deeds of
prowess a maiden's hand should be won; and there is no one in the
world--least of all I--worthy of you, mademoiselle, and no deeds of
prowess could be grand enough to deserve you, and I have nothing to
win you with but my great love; will that avail me,--Pelagie?"

She did not answer for a moment; she was all rosy and drooping, and
with a happy smile about her lips, as she had been in the cabinet of
the First Consul.

I put my great hand on her little one, still playing with Fatima's
mane, and clasped it tight, though it fluttered like a bird at first
and then lay quiet.

"Pelagie, Pelagie, look up at me," I whispered. "I may call you
Pelagie, may I not?"

Swiftly and shyly she looked up into my eyes, and I looked down into
heaven.

"Yes, monsieur," she whispered.

Suddenly she broke into a low laugh, and tried to draw her hand away
from mine.

"My name is not Pelagie," she said.

"Not Pelagie!" I exclaimed, thinking she was playing me some merry
trick, and wishing she had chosen some other time to play it.

"No, monsieur," she said soberly. "They named me Pelagie when they
brought me over sea, but my name is Louise Adelaide, for my aunt the
Abbess of Remiremont."

I was silent for a moment, for I liked not to think of little Pelagie
by any other name. Then I gently took her hand again and raised it to
my lips:

"Louise Adelaide," I said, "may do for a princess of Condé, but you
will always be my little Pelagie to me," and so great was the love in
my heart that my voice trembled as I spoke, and we were both very
still for a little, while her hand lay quietly in mine.

Suddenly a thought struck me:

"Pelagie," I said, "you have never spoken my name; I do not believe
you know what it is."

"Yes, I do, monsieur." She looked up at me saucily. "Shall I tell you
what it is?"

"Call me by it!" I implored her softly.

For answer she lifted her arms and drew my head down toward her and
whispered it in my ear.

And I, what did I do?

What would any man have done whose heart was running over with love
for the most adorable maiden in the world, and her sweet face so
near?




       *       *       *       *       *

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       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's notes:

   The list of Illustrations was not part of the original book.

   Page 97: droping changed to dropping (cook was droping still
            more into the kettle of boiling fat).





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