I knew by the light that it was evening when I awoke. So prisoners mark
the passing of the days by a bar of sun light. And as I looked at the
green trees in the courtyard, vaguely troubled by I knew not what, some
one came and stood in the doorway. It was Nick.
"You don't seem very cheerful," said he; "a man ought to be who has been
snatched out of the fire."
"You seem to be rather too sure of my future," I said, trying to smile.
"That's more like you," said Nick. "Egad, you ought to be happy--we all
ought to be happy--she's gone."
"She!" I cried. "Who's gone?"
"Madame la Vicomtesse," he replied, rubbing his hands as he stood over
me. "But she's left instructions with me for Lindy as long as Monsieur
de Carondelet's Bando de Buen Gobierno. You are not to do this, and you
are not to do that, you are to eat such and such things, you are to be
made to sleep at such and such times. She came in here about an hour ago
and took a long look at you before she left."
"She was not ill?" I said faintly.
"Faith, I don't know why she was not," he said. "She has done enough to
tire out an army. But she seems well and fairly happy. She had her joke
at my expense as she went through the court-yard, and she reminded me
that we were to send a report by Andre every day."
Chagrin, depression, relief, bewilderment, all were struggling within me.
"Where did she go?" I asked at last.
"To Les Iles," he said. "You are to be brought there as soon as you are
strong enough."
"Do you happen to know why she went?" I said.
"Now how the deuce should I know?" he answered. "I've done everything
with blind servility since I came into this house. I never asked for any
reason--it never would have done any good. I suppose she thought that
you were well on the road to recovery, and she knew that Lindy was an old
hand. And then the doctor is to come in."
"Why didn't you go?" I demanded, with a sudden remembrance that he was
staying away from happiness.
"It was because I longed for another taste of liberty, Davy," he laughed.
"You and I will have an old-fashioned time here together,--a deal of
talk, and perhaps a little piquet,--who knows?"
My strength came back, bit by bit, and listening to his happiness did
much to ease the soreness of my heart--while the light lasted. It was
in the night watches that my struggles came--though often some unwitting
speech of his would bring back the pain. He took delight in telling me,
for example, how for hours at a time I had been in a fearful delirium.
"The Lord knows what foolishness you talked, Davy," said he. "It would
have done me good to hear you had you been in your right mind."
"But you did hear me," I said, full of apprehensions.
"Some of it," said he. "You were after Wilkinson once, in a burrow, I
believe, and you swore dreadfully because he got out of the other end. I
can't remember all the things you said. Oh, yes, once you were talking
to Auguste de St. Gre about money."
"Money?" I repeated in a sinking voice.
"Oh, a lot of jargon." The Vicomtesse pushed me out of the room, and
after that I was never allowed to be there when you had those flights.
Curse the mosquitoes! He seized a fan and began to ply it vigorously.
"I remember. You were giving Auguste a lecture. Then I had to go."
These and other reminiscences gave me sufficient food for reflection, and
many a shudder over the possibilities of my ravings. She had put him
out! No wonder.
After a while I was carried to the gallery, and there I would talk to the
little doctor about the yellow fever which had swept the city. Monsieur
Perrin was not much of a doctor, to be sure, and he had a heartier dread
of the American invasion than of the scourge. He worshipped the
Vicomtesse, and was so devoid of professional pride as to give her freely
all credit for my recovery. He too, clothed her with the qualities of
statesmanship.
"Ha, Monsieur," he said, "if that lady had been King of France, do you
think there would have been any States General, any red bonnets, any
Jacobins or Cordeliers? Parbleu, she would have swept the vicemongers
and traitors out of the Palais Royal itself. There would have been a
house-cleaning there. I, who speak to you, know it."
Every day Nick wrote a bulletin to be sent to the Vicomtesse, and he took
a fiendish delight in the composition of these. He would come out on the
gallery with ink and a blank sheet of paper and try to enlist my help.
He would insert the most ridiculous statements, as for instance, "Davy is
worse to-day, having bribed Lindy to give him a pint of Madeira against
my orders." Or, "Davy feigns to be sinking rapidly because he wishes to
have you back." Indeed, I was always in a torture of doubt to know what
the rascal had sent.
His company was most agreeable when he was recounting the many adventures
he had had during the five years after he had left New Orleans and been
lost to me. These would fill a book, and a most readable book it would
be if written in his own speech. His love for the excitement of the
frontier had finally drawn him back to the Cumberland country near
Nashville, and he had actually gone so far as to raise a house and till
some of the land which he had won from Darnley. It was perhaps
characteristic of him that he had named the place "Rattle-and-Snap" in
honor of the game which had put him in possession of it, and
"Rattle-and-Snap" it remains to this day. He was going back there with
Antoinette, so he said, to build a brick mansion and to live a
respectable life the rest of his days.
There was one question which had been in my mind to ask him, concerning
the attitude of Monsieur de St. Gre. That gentleman, with Madame, had
hurried back from Pointe Coupee at a message from the Vicomtesse, and had
gone first to Les Iles to see Antoinette. Then he had come, in spite of
the fever, to his own house in New Orleans to see Nick himself. What
their talk had been I never knew, for the subject was too painful to be
dwelt upon, and the conversation had been marked by frankness on both
sides. Monsieur de St. Gre was a just man, his love for his daughter was
his chief passion, and despite all that had happened he liked Nick. I
believe he could not wholly blame the younger man, and he forgave him.
Mrs. Temple, poor lady, had died on that first night of my illness, and
it was her punishment that she had not known her son or her son's
happiness. Whatever sins she had committed in her wayward life were
atoned for, and by her death I firmly believe that she redeemed him. She
lies now among the Temples in Charleston, and on the stone which marks
her grave is cut no line that hints of the story of these pages.
One bright morning, when Nick and I were playing cards, we heard some
one mounting the stairs, and to my surprise and embarrassment I beheld
Monsieur de St. Gre emerging on the gallery. He was in white linen and
wore a broad hat, which he took from his head as he advanced. He had
aged somewhat, his hair was a little gray, but otherwise he was the firm,
dignified personage I had admired on this same gallery five years before.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said in English; "ha, do not rise, sir" (to
me). He patted Nick's shoulder kindly, but not familiarly, as he passed
him, and extended his hand.
"Mr. Ritchie, it gives me more pleasure than I can express to see you so
much recovered."
"I am again thrown on your hospitality, sir," I said, flushing with
pleasure at this friendliness. For I admired and respected the man
greatly. "And I fear I have been a burden and trouble to you and your
family."
He took my hand and pressed it. Characteristically, he did not answer
this, and I remembered he was always careful not to say anything which
might smack of insincerity.
"I had a glimpse of you some weeks ago," he said, thus making light of
the risk he had run. "You are a different man now. You may thank your
Scotch blood and your strong constitution."
"His good habits have done him some good, after all," put in my
irrepressible cousin.
Monsieur de St. Gre smiled.
"Nick," he said (he pronounced the name quaintly, like Antoinette), "his
good habits have turned out to be some advantage to you. Mr. Ritchie,
you have a faithful friend at least." He patted Nick's shoulder again.
"And he has promised me to settle down."
"I have every inducement, sir," said Nick.
Monsieur de St. Gre became grave.
"You have indeed, Monsieur," he answered.
"I have just come from Dr. Perrin's, David,"--he added, "May I call you
so? Well, then, I have just come from Dr. Perrin's, and he says you may
be moved to Les Iles this very afternoon. Why, upon my word," he
exclaimed, staring at me, "you don't look pleased. One would think you
were going to the calabozo."
"Ah," said Nick, slyly, "I know. He has tasted freedom, Monsieur, and
Madame la Vicomtesse will be in command again."
I flushed. Nick could be very exasperating.
"You must not mind him, Monsieur," I said.
"I do not mind him," answered Monsieur de St. Gre, laughing in spite of
himself. "He is a sad rogue. As for Helene--"
"I shall not know how to thank the Vicomtesse," I said. "She has done me
the greatest service one person can do another."
"Helene is a good woman," answered Monsieur de St. Gre, simply. "She is
more than that, she is a wonderful woman. I remember telling you of her
once. I little thought then that she would ever come to us."
He turned to me. "Dr. Perrin will be here this afternoon, David, and he
will have you dressed. Between five and six if all goes well, we shall
start for Les Iles. And in the meantime, gentlemen," he added with a
stateliness that was natural to him, "I have business which takes me
to-day to my brother-in-law's, Monsieur de Beausejour's."
Nick leaned over the gallery and watched meditatively his prospective
father-in-law leaving the court-yard.
"He got me out of a devilish bad scrape," he said.
"How was that?" I asked listlessly.
"That fat little Baron, the Governor, was for deporting me for running
past the sentry and giving him all the trouble I did. It seems that the
Vicomtesse promised to explain matters in a note which she wrote, and
never did explain. She was here with you, and a lot she cared about
anything else. Lucky that Monsieur de St. Gre came back. Now his
Excellency graciously allows me to stay here, if I behave myself, until I
get married."
I do not know how I spent the rest of the day. It passed, somehow. If I
had had the strength then, I believe I should have fled. I was to see
her again, to feel her near me, to hear her voice. During the weeks that
had gone by I had schooled myself, in a sense, to the inevitable. I had
not let my mind dwell upon my visit to Les Iles, and now I was face to
face with the struggle for which I felt I had not the strength. I had
fought one battle,--I knew that a fiercer battle was to come.
In due time the doctor arrived, and while he prepared me for my
departure, the little man sought, with misplaced kindness, to raise my
spirits. Was not Monsieur going to the country, to a paradise?
Monsieur--so Dr. Perrin had noticed--had a turn for philosophy. Could
two more able and brilliant conversationalists be found than Philippe de
St. Gre and Madame la Vicomtesse? And there was the happiness of that
strange but lovable young man, Monsieur Temple, to contemplate. He was
in luck, ce beau garcon, for he was getting an angel for his wife. Did
Monsieur know that Mademoiselle Antoinette was an angel?
At last I was ready, arrayed in my best, on the gallery, when Monsieur de
St. Gre came. Andre and another servant carried me down into the court,
and there stood a painted sedan-chair with the St. Gre arms on the
panels.
"My father imported it, David," said Monsieur de St. Gre. "It has not
been used for many years. You are to be carried in it to the levee, and
there I have a boat for you."
Overwhelmed by this kindness, I could not find words to thank him as I
got into the chair. My legs were too long for it, I remember. I had a
quaint feeling of unreality as I sank back on the red satin cushions and
was borne out of the gate between the lions. Monsieur de St. Gre and
Nick walked in front, the faithful Lindy followed, and people paused to
stare at us as we passed. We crossed the Place d'Armes, the Royal Road,
gained the willow-bordered promenade on the levee's crown, and a wide
barge was waiting, manned by six negro oarsmen. They lifted me into its
stern under the awning, the barge was cast off, the oars dipped, and we
were gliding silently past the line of keel boats on the swift current of
the Mississippi. The spars of the shipping were inky black, and the
setting sun had struck a red band across the waters. For a while the
three of us sat gazing at the green shore, each wrapped in his own
reflections,--Philippe de St. Gre thinking, perchance, of the wayward son
he had lost; Nick of the woman who awaited him; and I of one whom fate
had set beyond me. It was Monsieur de St. Gre who broke the silence at
last.
"You feel no ill effects from your moving, David?" he asked, with an
anxious glance at me.
"None, sir," I said.
"The country air will do you good," he said kindly.
"And Madame la Vicomtesse will put him on a diet," added Nick, rousing
himself.
"Helene will take care of him," answered Monsieur de St. Gre.
He fell to musing again. "Madame la Vicomtesse has seen more in seven
years than most of us see in a lifetime," he said. "She has beheld the
glory of France, and the dishonor and pollution of her country. Had the
old order lasted her salon would have been famous, and she would have
been a power in politics."
"I have thought that the Vicomtesse must have had a queer marriage," Nick
remarked.
Monsieur de St. Gre smiled.
"Such marriages were the rule amongst our nobility," he said. "It was
arranged while Helene was still in the convent, though it was not
celebrated until three years after she had been in the world. There was
a romantic affair, I believe, with a young gentleman of the English
embassy, though I do not know the details. He is said to be the only man
she ever cared for. He was a younger son of an impoverished earl."
I started, remembering what the Vicomtesse had said. But Monsieur de St.
Gre did not appear to see my perturbation.
"Be that as it may, if Helene suffered, she never gave a sign of it. The
marriage was celebrated with great pomp, and the world could only
conjecture what she thought of the Vicomte. It was deemed on both sides
a brilliant match. He had inherited vast estates, Ivry-le-Tour,
Montmery, Les Saillantes, I know not what else. She was heiress to the
Chateau de St. Gre with its wide lands, to the chateau and lands of the
Cote Rouge in Normandy, to the hotel St. Gre in Paris. Monsieur le
Vicomte was between forty and fifty at his marriage, and from what I have
heard of him he had many of the virtues and many of the faults of his
order. He was a bachelor, which does not mean that he had lacked
consolations. He was reserved with his equals, and distant with others.
He had served in the Guards, and did not lack courage. He dressed
exquisitely, was inclined to the Polignac party, took his ease
everywhere, had a knowledge of cards and courts, and little else. He was
cheated by his stewards, refused to believe that the Revolution was
serious, and would undoubtedly have been guillotined had the Vicomtesse
not contrived to get him out of France in spite of himself. They went
first to the Duke de Ligne, at Bel Oeil, and thence to Coblentz. He
accepted a commission in the Austrian service, which is much to his
credit, and Helene went with some friends to England. There my letter
reached her, and rather than be beholden to strangers or accept my money
there, she came to us. That is her story in brief, Messieurs. As for
Monsieur le Vicomte, he admired his wife, as well he might, respected her
for the way she served the gallants, but he made no pretence of loving
her. One affair--a girl in the village of Montmery--had lasted. Helene
was destined for higher things than may be found in Louisiana," said
Monsieur de St. Gre, turning to Nick, "but now that you are to carry away
my treasure, Monsieur, I do not know what I should have done without
her."
"And has there been any news of the Vicomte of late?"
It was Nick who asked the question, after a little. Monsieur de St. Gre
looked at him in surprise.
"Eh, mon Dieu, have you not heard?" he said. "C'est vrai, you have been
with David. Did not the Vicomtesse mention it? But why should she?
Monsieur le Vicomte died in Vienna. He had lived too well."
"The Vicomte is dead?" I said.
They both looked at me. Indeed, I should not have recognized my own
voice. What my face betrayed, what my feelings were, I cannot say. My
heart beat no faster, there was no tumult in my brain, and yet--my breath
caught strangely. Something grew within me which is beyond the measure
of speech, and so it was meant to be.
"I did not know this myself until Helene returned to Les Iles," Monsieur
de St. Gre was saying to me. "The letter came to her the day after you
were taken ill. It was from the Baron von Seckenbruck, at whose house
the Vicomte died. She took it very calmly, for Helene is not a woman to
pretend. How much better, after all, if she had married her Englishman
for love! And she is much troubled now because, as she declares, she is
dependent upon my bounty. That is my happiness, my consolation," the
good man added simply, "and her father, the Marquis, was kind to me when
I was a young provincial and a stranger. God rest his soul!"
We were drawing near to Les Iles. The rains had come during my illness,
and in the level evening light the forest of the shore was the tender
green of spring. At length we saw the white wooden steps in the levee at
the landing, and near them were three figures waiting. We glided nearer.
One was Madame de St. Gre, another was Antoinette,--these I saw indeed.
The other was Helene, and it seemed to me that her eyes met mine across
the waters and drew them. Then we were at the landing. I heard Madame
de St. Gre's voice, and Antoinette's in welcome--I listened for another.
I saw Nick running up the steps; in the impetuosity of his love he had
seized Antoinette's hand in his, and she was the color of a red rose.
Creole decorum forbade further advances. Andre and another lifted me
out, and they gathered around me,--these kind people and devoted
friends,--Antoinette calling me, with exquisite shyness, by name; Madame
de St. Gre giving me a grave but gentle welcome, and asking anxiously how
I stood the journey. Another took my hand, held it for the briefest
space that has been marked out of time, and for that instant I looked
into her eyes. Life flowed back into me, and strength, and a joy not to
be fathomed. I could have walked; but they bore me through the
well-remembered vista, and the white gallery at the end of it was like
the sight of home. The evening air was laden with the scent of the
sweetest of all shrubs and flowers.
Read next: BOOK III - LOUISIANA#XIV - "TO UNPATHED WATERS, UNDREAMED SHORES"
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