Hesitating on the step, a lady stood in the vine-covered doorway, a study
in black and white in a frame of pink roses. The sash at her waist, the
lace mantilla that clung about her throat, the deftly coiled hair with
its sheen of the night waters--these in black. The simple gown--a
tribute to the art of her countrywomen--in white.
Mrs. Temple had gone forward to meet her, but I stood staring,
marvelling, forgetful, in the path. They were talking, they were coming
towards me, and I heard Mrs. Temple pronounce my name and hers--Madame de
Montmery. I bowed, she courtesied. There was a baffling light in the
lady's brown eyes when I dared to glance at them, and a smile playing
around her mouth. Was there no word in the two languages to find its way
to my lips? Mrs. Temple laid her hand on my arm.
"David is not what one might call a ladies' man, Madame," she said.
The lady laughed.
"Isn't he?" she said.
"I am sure you will frighten him with your wit," answered Mrs. Temple,
smiling. "He is worth sparing."
"He is worth frightening, then," said the lady, in exquisite English, and
she looked at me again.
"You and David should like each other," said Mrs. Temple; "you are both
capable persons, friends of the friendless and towers of strength to the
weak."
The lady's face became serious, but still there was the expression I
could not make out. In an instant she seemed to have scrutinized me with
a precision from which there could be no appeal.
"I seem to know Mr. Ritchie," she said, and added quickly: "Mrs. Clive
has talked a great deal about you. She has made you out a very wonderful
person."
"My dear," said Mrs. Temple, "the wonderful people of this world are
those who find time to comfort and help the unfortunate. That is why you
and David are wonderful. No one knows better than I how easy it is to be
selfish."
"I have brought you an English novel," said Madame de Montomery, turning
abruptly to Mrs. Temple. "But you must not read it at night. Lindy is
not to let you have it until to-morrow."
"There," said Mrs. Temple, gayly, to me, "Madame is not happy unless she
is controlling some one, and I am a rebellious subject."
"You have not been taking care of yourself," said Madame. She glanced at
me, and bit her lips, as though guessing the emotion which my visit had
caused. "Listen," she said, "the vesper bells! You must go into the
house, and Mr. Ritchie and I must leave you."
She took Mrs. Temple by the arm and led her, unresisting, along the path.
I followed, a thousand thoughts and conjectures spinning in my brain.
They reached the bench under the little tree beside the door, and stood
talking for a moment of the routine of Mrs. Temple's life. Madame, it
seemed, had prescribed a regimen, and meant to have it followed.
Suddenly I saw Mrs. Temple take the lady's arm, and sink down upon the
bench. Then we were both beside her, bending over her, she sitting
upright and smiling at us.
"It is nothing," she said; "I am so easily tired."
Her lips were ashen, and her breath came quickly. Madame acted with that
instant promptness which I expected of her.
"You must carry her in, Mr. Ritchie," she said quietly.
"No, it is only momentary, David," said Mrs. Temple. I remember how
pitifully frail and light she was as I picked her up and followed Madame
through the doorway into the little bedroom. I laid Mrs. Temple on the
bed.
"Send Lindy here," said Madame.
Lindy was in the front room with the negress whom Madame had brought with
her. They were not talking. I supposed then this was because Lindy did
not speak French. I did not know that Madame de Montmery's maid was a
mute. Both of them went into the bedroom, and I was left alone. The
door and windows were closed, and a green myrtle-berry candle was burning
on the table. I looked about me with astonishment. But for the low
ceiling and the wide cypress puncheons of the floor the room might have
been a boudoir in a manor-house. On the slender-legged, polished
mahogany table lay books in tasteful bindings; a diamond-paned bookcase
stood in the corner; a fauteuil and various other chairs which might have
come from the hands of an Adam were ranged about. Tall silver
candlesticks graced each end of the little mantel-shelf, and between them
were two Lowestoft vases having the Temple coat of arms.
It might have been half an hour that I waited, now pacing the floor, now
throwing myself into the arm-chair by the fireplace. Anxiety for Mrs.
Temple, problems that lost themselves in a dozen conjectures, all idle--
these agitated me almost beyond my power of self-control. Once I felt
for the miniature, took it out, and put it back without looking at it.
At last I was startled to my feet by the opening of the door, and Madame
de Montmery came in. She closed the door softly behind her, with the
deft quickness and decision of movement which a sixth sense had told me
she possessed, crossed the room swiftly, and stood confronting me.
"She is easy again, now," she said simply. "It is one of her attacks. I
wish you might have seen me before you told her what you had to say to
her."
"I wish indeed that I had known you were here."
She ignored this, whether intentionally, I know not.
"It is her heart, poor lady! I am afraid she cannot live long." She
seated herself in one of the straight chairs. "Sit down, Mr. Ritchie,"
she said; "I am glad you waited. I wanted to talk with you."
"I thought that you might, Madame la Vicomtesse," I answered.
She made no gesture, either of surprise or displeasure.
"So you knew," she said quietly.
"I knew you the moment you appeared in the doorway," I replied. It was
not just what I meant to say.
There flashed over her face that expression of the miniature, the mouth
repressing the laughter in the brown eyes.
"Montmery is one of my husband's places," she said. "When Antoinette
asked me to come here and watch over Mrs. Temple, I chose the name."
"And Mrs. Temple has never suspected you?"
"I think not. She thinks I came at Mr. Clark's request. And being a
lady, she does not ask questions. She accepts me for what I appear to
be."
It seemed so strange to me to be talking here in New Orleans, in this
little Spanish house, with a French vicomtesse brought up near the court
of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette; nay, with Helene de St. Gre, whose
portrait had twice come into my life by a kind of strange fatality (and
was at that moment in my pocket), that I could scarce maintain my
self-possession in her presence. I had given the portrait, too,
attributes and a character, and I found myself watching the lady with a
breathless interest lest she should fail in any of these. In the
intimacy of the little room I felt as if I had known her always, and
again, that she was as distant from me and my life as the court from
which she had come. I found myself glancing continually at her face, on
which the candle-light shone. The Vicomtesse might have been four and
twenty. Save for the soberer gown she wore, she seemed scarce older than
the young girl in the miniature who had the presence of a woman of the
world. Suddenly I discovered with a flush that she was looking at me
intently, without embarrassment, but with an expression that seemed to
hint of humor in the situation. To my astonishment, she laughed a
little.
"You are a very odd person, Mr. Ritchie," she said. "I have heard so
much of you from Mrs. Temple, from Antoinette, that I know something of
your strange life. After all," she added with a trace of sadness, "it
has been no stranger than my own. First I will answer your questions,
and then I shall ask some."
"But I have asked no questions, Madame la Vicomtesse," I said.
"And you are a very simple person, Mr. Ritchie," continued Madame la
Vicomtesse, smiling; "it is what I had been led to suppose. A serious
person. As the friend of Mr. Nicholas Temple, as the relation and (may I
say?) benefactor of this poor lady here, it is fitting that you should
know certain things. I will not weary you with the reasons and events
which led to my coming from Europe to New Orleans, except to say that I,
like all of my class who have escaped the horrors of the Revolution, am a
wanderer, and grateful to Monsieur de St. Gre for the shelter he gives
me. His letter reached me in England, and I arrived three months ago."
She hesitated--nay, I should rather say paused, for there was little
hesitation in what she did. She paused, as though weighing what she was
to say next.
"When I came to Les Iles I saw that there was a sorrow weighing upon the
family; and it took no great astuteness on my part, Mr. Ritchie, to
discover that Antoinette was the cause of it. One has only to see
Antoinette to love her. I wondered why she had not married. And yet I
saw that there had been an affair. It seemed very strange to me, Mr.
Ritchie, for with us, you understand, marriages are arranged. Antoinette
really has beauty, she is the daughter of a man of importance in the
colony, her strength of character saves her from being listless. I found
a girl with originality of expression, with a sense of the fitness of
things, devoted to charitable works, who had not taken the veil. That
was on her father's account. As you know, they are inseparable.
Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre is a remarkable man, with certain vigorous
ideas not in accordance with the customs of his neighbors. It was he who
first confided in me that he would not force Antoinette to marry; it was
she, at length, who told me the story of Nicholas Temple and his mother."
She paused again, and, reading between the lines, I perceived that Madame
la Vicomtesse had become essential to the household at Les Iles.
Philippe de St. Gre was not a man to misplace a confidence.
"It was then that I first heard of you, Mr. Ritchie, and of the part
which you played in that affair. It was then I had my first real insight
into Antoinette's character. Her affection for Mrs. Temple astonished
me, bewildered me. The woman had deceived her and her family, and yet
Antoinette gave up her lover because he would not take his mother back.
Had Mrs. Temple been willing to return to Les Iles after you had
providentially taken her away, they would have received her. Philippe de
St. Gre is not a man to listen to criticism. As it was, Antoinette did
not rest until she found where Mrs. Temple had hidden herself, and then
she came here to her. It is not for us to judge any of them. In sending
Antoinette away the poor lady denied herself the only consolation that
was left to her. Antoinette understood. Every week she has had news of
Mrs. Temple from Mr. Clark. And when I came and learned her trouble,
Antoinette begged me to come here and be Mrs. Temple's friend. Mr.
Ritchie, she is a very ill woman and a very sad woman,--the saddest woman
I have ever known, and I have seen many."
"And Mademoiselle de St. Gre?" I asked.
"Tell me about this man for whom Antoinette has ruined her life," said
Madame la Vicomtesse, brusquely. "Is he worth it? No, no man is worth
what she has suffered. What has become of him? Where is he? Did you
not tell her that you would bring him back?"
"I said that I would bring him back if I could," I answered, "and I meant
it, Madame."
Madame la Vicomtesse bit her lip. Had she known me better, she might
have smiled. As for me, I was wholly puzzled to account for these
fleeting changes in her humor.
"You have taken a great deal upon your shoulders, Mr. Ritchie," she said.
"They are from all accounts broad ones. There, I was wrong to be
indignant in your presence,--you who seem to have spent your life in
trying to get others out of difficulties. Mercy," she said, with a quick
gesture at my protest, "there are few men with whom one might talk thus
in so short an acquaintance. I love the girl, and I cannot help being
angry with Mr. Temple. I suppose there is something to be said on his
side. Let us hear it--I dare say he could not have a better advocate,"
she finished, with an indefinable smile.
I began at the wrong end of my narrative, and it was some time before I
had my facts arranged in proper sequence. I could not forget that Madame
la Vicomtesse was looking at me fixedly. I reviewed Nick's neglected
childhood; painted as well as I might his temperament and character--his
generosity and fearlessness, his recklessness and improvidence. His
loyalty to those he loved, his detestation of those he hated. I told
how, under these conditions, the sins and vagaries of his parents had
gone far to wreck his life at the beginning of it. I told how I had
found him again with Sevier, how he had come to New Orleans with me the
first time, how he had loved Antoinette, and how he had disappeared after
the dreadful scene in the garden at Les Iles, how I had not seen him
again for five years. Here I hesitated, little knowing how to tell the
Vicomtesse of that affair in Louisville. Though I had a sense that I
could not keep the truth from so discerning a person, I was startled to
find this to be so.
"Yes, yes, I understand," she said quickly. "And in the morning he had
flown with that most worthy of my relatives, Auguste de St. Gre."
I looked at her, finding no words to express my astonishment at this
perspicacity.
"And now what do you intend to do?" she asked. "Find him in New Orleans,
if you can, of course. But how?" She rose quickly, went to the
fireplace, and stood for a moment with her back to me. Suddenly she
turned. "It ought not to be difficult, after all. Auguste de St. Gre is
a fool, and he confirms what you say of the expedition. He is, indeed, a
pretty person to choose for an intrigue of this kind. And your
cousin,--what shall we call him?"
"To say the least, secrecy is not Nick's forte," I answered, catching her
mood.
She was silent awhile.
"It would be a blessing if Monsieur le Baron could hang Auguste
privately. As for your cousin, he may be worth saving, after all. I
know Monsieur de Carondelet, and he has no patience with conspirators of
this sort. I think he would not hesitate to make examples of them.
However, we will try to save them."
"We!" I repeated unwittingly.
Madame la Vicomtesse looked at me and laughed out right.
"Yes," she said, "you will do some things, I others. There are the
gaming clubs with their ridiculous names, L'Amour, La Mignonne, La
Desiree" (she counted them reflectively on her fingers). "Both of our
gentlemen might be tempted into one of these. You will drop into them,
Mr. Ritchie. Then there is Madame Bouvet's."
"Auguste would scarcely go there," I objected.
"Ah," said Madame la Vicomtesse, "but Madame Bouvet will know the names
of some of Auguste's intimates. This Bouvet is evidently a good person,
perhaps she will do more for you. I understand that she has a weak spot
in her heart for Auguste."
Madame la Vicomtesse turned her back again. Had she heard how Madame
Bouvet had begged me to buy the miniature?
"Have you any other suggestions to make?" she said, putting a foot on the
fender.
"They have all been yours, so far," I answered.
"And yet you are a man of action, of expedients," she murmured, without
turning. "Where are your wits, Mr. Ritchie? Have you any plan?"
"I have been so used to rely on myself, Madame," I replied.
"That you do not like to have your affairs meddled with by a woman," she
said, into the fireplace.
"I give you the credit to believe that you are too clever to
misunderstand me, Madame," I said. "You must know that your help is most
welcome."
At that she swung around and regarded me strangely, mirth lurking in her
eyes. She seemed about to retort, and then to conquer the impulse. The
effect of this was to make me anything but self-complacent. She sat down
in the chair and for a little while she was silent.
"Suppose we do find them," she said suddenly. "What shall we do with
them?" She looked up at me questioningly, seriously. "Is it likely that
your Mr. Temple will be reconciled with his mother? Is it likely that he
is still in love with Antoinette?"
"I think it is likely that he is still in love with Mademoiselle de St.
Gre," I answered, "though I have no reason for saying so."
"You are very honest, Mr. Ritchie. We must look at this problem from all
sides. If he is not reconciled with his mother, Antoinette will not
receive him. And if he is, we have the question to consider whether he
is still worthy of her. The agents of Providence must not be heedless,"
she added with a smile.
"I am sure that Nick would alter his life if it became worth living," I
said. "I will answer for that much."
"Then he must be reconciled with his mother," she replied with decision.
"Mrs. Temple has suffered enough. And he must be found before he gets
sufficiently into the bad graces of the Baron de Carondelet,--these two
things are clear." She rose. "Come here to-morrow evening at the same
time."
She started quickly for the bedroom door, but something troubled me
still.
"Madame--" I said.
"Yes," she answered, turning quickly.
I did not know how to begin. There were many things I wished to say, to
know, but she was a woman whose mind seemed to leap the chasms, whose
words touched only upon those points which might not be understood. She
regarded me with seeming patience.
"I should think that Mrs. Temple might have recognized you," I said, for
want of a better opening.
"From the miniature?" she said.
I flushed furiously, and it seemed to burn me through the lining of my
pocket.
"That was my salvation," she said. "Mrs. Temple has never seen the
miniature. I have heard how you rescued it, Mr. Ritchie," she added,
with a curious smile. "Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre told me."
"Then he knew?" I stammered.
She laughed.
"I have told you that you are a very simple person," she said. "Even you
are not given to intrigues. I thank you for rescuing me."
I flushed more hotly than before.
"I never expected to see you," I said.
"It must have been a shock," she said.
I was dumb. I had my hand in my coat; I fully intended to give her the
miniature. It was my plain duty. And suddenly, overwhelmed, I
remembered that it was wrapped in Polly Ann's silk handkerchief.
Madame la Vicomtesse remained for a moment where she was.
"Do not do anything until the morning," she said. "You must go back to
your lodgings at once."
"That would be to lose time," I answered.
"You must think of yourself a little," she said. "Do as I say. I have
heard that two cases of the yellow fever have broken out this afternoon.
And you, who are not used to the climate, must not be out after dark."
"And you?" I said.
"I am used to it," she replied; "I have been here three months. Lest
anything should happen, it might be well for you to give me your
address."
"I am with Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville."
"Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville," she repeated.
"I shall remember. A demain, Monsieur." She courtesied and went swiftly
into Mrs. Temple's room. Seizing my hat, I opened the door and found
myself in the dark street.
Read next: BOOK III - LOUISIANA#VII - THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE
Read previous: BOOK III - LOUISIANA#V - THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES
Table of content of Crossing
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your reviewYour review will be placed after the table of content of this book
