The Crossing

W >> Winston Churchill >> The Crossing


"All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur," I answered sharply.
"The question is purely a commercial one, and has nothing to do with the
lady's character or position."

"It is well said, Monsieur," Madame Bouvet put in.

Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre shrugged his slim shoulders and laid down
the portrait on the walnut table.

"Four hundred livres, Monsieur," he said.

I counted out the money, scrutinized by the curious eyes of his
companions, and pushed it over to him. He bowed carelessly, sat him
down, and began to shuffle the cards, while I picked up the miniature and
walked out of the room. Before I had gone twenty paces I heard them
laughing at their game and shouting out the stakes. Suddenly I bethought
myself of Nick. What if he should come in and discover the party at the
table? I stopped short in the hallway, and there Madame Bouvet overtook
me.

"How can I thank you, Monsieur?" she said. And then, "You will return
the portrait to Monsieur de Saint-Gre?"

"I have a letter from Monsieur Gratiot to that gentleman, which I shall
deliver in the morning," I answered. "And now, Madame, I have a favor to
ask of you."

"I am at Monsieur's service," she answered simply.

"When Mr. Temple comes in, he is not to go into that room," I said,
pointing to the door of the saloon; "I have my reasons for requesting
it."

For answer Madame went to the door, closed it, and turned the key. Then
she sat down beside a little table with a candlestick and took up her
knitting.

"It will be as Monsieur says," she answered.

I smiled.

"And when Mr. Temple comes in will you kindly say that I am waiting for
him in his room?" I asked.

"As Monsieur says," she answered. "I wish Monsieur a good-night and
pleasant dreams."

She took a candlestick from the table, lighted the candle, and handed it
me with a courtesy. I bowed, and made my way along the gallery above the
deserted court-yard. Entering my room and closing the door after me, I
drew the miniature from my pocket and stood gazing at it for I know not
how long.



CHAPTER XII

LES ILES

I stood staring at the portrait, I say, with a kind of fascination that
astonished me, seeing that it had come to me in such a way. It was no
French face of my imagination, and as I looked it seemed to me that I
knew Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre. And yet I smile as I write this,
realizing full well that my strange and foreign surroundings and my
unforeseen adventure had much to do with my state of mind. The lady in
the miniature might have been eighteen, or thirty-five. Her features
were of the clearest cut, the nose the least trifle aquiline, and by a
blurred outline the painter had given to the black hair piled high upon
the head a suggestion of waviness. The eyebrows were straight, the brown
eyes looked at the world with an almost scornful sense of humor, and I
marked that there was determination in the chin. Here was a face that
could be infinitely haughty or infinitely tender, a mouth of witty--nay,
perhaps cutting--repartee of brevity and force. A lady who spoke
quickly, moved quickly, or reposed absolutely. A person who commanded by
nature and yet (dare I venture the thought?) was capable of a supreme
surrender. I was aroused from this odd revery by footsteps on the
gallery, and Nick burst into the room. Without pausing to look about
him, he flung himself lengthwise on the bed on top of the mosquito bar.

"A thousand curses on such a place," he cried; "it is full of rat holes
and rabbit warrens."

"Did you catch your man?" I asked innocently.

"Catch him!" said Nick, with a little excusable profanity; "he went in at
one end of such a warren and came out at another. I waited for him in
two streets until an officious person chanced along and threatened to
take me before the Alcalde. What the devil is that you have got in your
hand, Davy?" he demanded, raising his head.

"A miniature that took my fancy, and which I bought."

He rose from the bed, yawned, and taking it in his hand, held it to the
light. I watched him curiously.

"Lord," he said, "it is such a passion as I might have suspected of you,
Davy."

"There was nothing said about passion," I answered

"Then why the deuce did you buy it?" he said with some pertinence.

This staggered me.

"A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a passion, I suppose," I
replied.

Nick held the picture at arm's length in the palm of his hand and
regarded it critically.

"Faith," said he, "you may thank heaven it is only a picture. If such a
one ever got hold of you, Davy, she would general you even as you general
me. Egad," he added with a laugh, "there would be no more walking the
streets at night in search of adventure for you. Consider carefully the
masterful features of that lady and thank God you haven't got her."

I was inclined to be angry, but ended by laughing.

"There will be no rivalry between us, at least," I said.

"Rivalry!" exclaimed Nick. "Heaven forbid that I should aspire to such
abject slavery. When I marry, it will be to command."

"All the more honor in such a conquest," I suggested.

"Davy," said he, "I have long been looking for some such flaw in your
insuperable wisdom. But I vow I can keep my eyes open no longer. Benjy!"

A smothered response came from the other side of the wall, and Benjy duly
appeared in the doorway, blinking at the candlelight, to put his master
to bed.

We slept that night with no bed covering save the mosquito bar, as was
the custom in New Orleans. Indeed, the heat was most oppressive, but we
had become to some extent inured to it on the boat, and we were both in
such sound health that our slumbers were not disturbed. Early in the
morning, however, I was awakened by a negro song from the court-yard, and
I lay pleasantly for some minutes listening to the early sounds,
breathing in the aroma of coffee which mingled with the odor of the
flowers of the court, until Zoey herself appeared in the doorway, holding
a cup in her hand. I arose, and taking the miniature from the table,
gazed at it in the yellow morning light; and then, having dressed myself,
I put it carefully in my pocket and sat down at my portfolio to compose a
letter to Polly Ann, knowing that a description of what I had seen in New
Orleans would amuse her. This done, I went out into the gallery, where
Madame was already seated at her knitting, in the shade of the great tree
that stood in the corner of the court and spread its branches over the
eaves. She arose and courtesied, with a questioning smile.

"Madame," I asked, "is it too early to present myself to Monsieur de
Saint-Gre?"

"Pardieu, no, Monsieur, we are early risers in the South for we have our
siesta. You are going to return the portrait, Monsieur?"

I nodded.

"God bless you for the deed," said she. "Tenez, Monsieur," she added,
stepping closer to me, "you will tell his father that you bought it from
Monsieur Auguste?"

I saw that she had a soft spot in her heart for the rogue.

"I will make no promises, Madame," I answered.

She looked at me timidly, appealingly, but I bowed and departed. The sun
was riding up into the sky, the walls already glowing with his heat, and
a midsummer languor seemed to pervade the streets as I walked along. The
shadows now were sharply defined, the checkered foliage of the trees was
flung in black against the yellow-white wall of the house with the
lions, and the green-latticed gallery which we had watched the night
before seemed silent and deserted. I knocked at the gate, and presently
a bright-turbaned gardienne opened it.

Was Monsieur de Saint-Gre at home. The gardienne looked me over, and
evidently finding me respectable, replied with many protestations of
sorrow that he was not, that he had gone with Mamselle very early that
morning to his country place at Les Iles. This information I extracted
with difficulty, for I was not by any means versed in the negro patois.

As I walked back to Madame Bouvet's I made up my mind that there was but
the one thing to do, to go at once to Monsieur de Saint-Gre's plantation.
Finding Madame still waiting in the gallery, I asked her to direct me
thither.

"You have but to follow the road that runs southward along the levee, and
some three leagues will bring you to it, Monsieur. You will inquire for
Monsieur de Saint-Gre."

"Can you direct me to Mr. Daniel Clark's?" I asked.

"The American merchant and banker, the friend and associate of the great
General Wilkinson whom you sent down to us last year? Certainly,
Monsieur. He will no doubt give you better advice than I on this
matter."

I found Mr. Clark in his counting-room, and I had not talked with him
five minutes before I began to suspect that, if a treasonable
understanding existed between Wilkinson and the Spanish government, Mr.
Clark was innocent of it. He being the only prominent American in the
place, it was natural that Wilkinson should have formed with him a
business arrangement to care for the cargoes he sent down. Indeed, after
we had sat for some time chatting together, Mr. Clark began himself to
make guarded inquiries on this very subject. Did I know Wilkinson? How
was his enterprise of selling Kentucky products regarded at home? But I
do not intend to burden this story with accounts of a matter which,
though it has never been wholly clear, has been long since fairly settled
in the public mind. Mr. Clark was most amiable, accepted my statement
that I was travelling for pleasure, and honored Monsieur Chouteau's bon
(for my purchase of the miniature had deprived me of nearly all my ready
money), and said that Mr. Temple and I would need horses to get to Les
Iles.

"And unless you purpose going back to Kentucky by keel boat, or round by
sea to Philadelphia or New York, and cross the mountains," he said, "you
will need good horses for your journey through Natchez and the Cumberland
country. There is a consignment of Spanish horses from the westward just
arrived in town," he added, "and I shall be pleased to go with you to the
place where they are sold. I shall not presume to advise a Kentuckian on
such a purchase."

The horses were crowded together under a dirty shed near the levee, and
the vessel from which they had been landed rode at anchor in the river.
They were the scrawny, tough ponies of the plains, reasonably cheap, and
it took no great discernment on my part to choose three of the strongest
and most intelligent looking. We went next to a saddler's, where I
selected three saddles and bridles of Spanish workmanship, and Mr. Clark
agreed to have two of his servants meet us with the horses before Madame
Bouvet's within the hour. He begged that we would dine with him when we
returned from Les Iles.

"You will not find an island, Mr. Ritchie," he said; "Saint-Gre's
plantation is a huge block of land between the river and a cypress swamp
behind. Saint-Gre is a man with a wonderful quality of mind, who might,
like his ancestors, have made his mark if necessity had probed him or
opportunity offered. He never forgave the Spanish government for the
murder of his father, nor do I blame him. He has his troubles. His son
is an incurable rake and degenerate, as you may have heard."

I went back to Madame Bouvet's, to find Nick emerging from his toilet.

"What deviltry have you been up to, Davy?" he demanded.

"I have been to the House of the Lions to see your divinity," I answered,
"and in a very little while horses will be here to carry us to her."

"What do you mean?" he asked, grasping me by both shoulders.

"I mean that we are going to her father's plantation, some way down the
river."

"On my honor, Davy, I did not suspect you of so much enterprise," he
cried. "And her husband--?"

"Does not exist," I replied. "Perhaps, after all, I might be able to
give you instruction in the conduct of an adventure. The man you chased
with such futility was her brother, and he stole from her the miniature
of which I am now the fortunate possessor."

He stared at me for a moment in rueful amazement.

"And her name?" he demanded.

"Antoinette de Saint-Gre," I answered; "our letter is to her father."

He made me a rueful bow.

"I fear that I have undervalued you, Mr. Ritchie," he said. "You have no
peer. I am unworthy to accompany you, and furthermore, it would be
useless."

"And why useless!" I inquired, laughing.

"You have doubtless seen the lady, and she is yours, said he.

"You forget that I am in love with a miniature," I said.

In half an hour we were packed and ready, the horses had arrived, we bade
good-by to Madame Bouvet and rode down the miry street until we reached
the road behind the levee. Turning southward, we soon left behind the
shaded esplanade and the city's roofs below us, and came to the first of
the plantation houses set back amidst the dark foliage. No tremor shook
the fringe of moss that hung from the heavy boughs, so still was the day,
and an indefinable, milky haze stretched between us and the cloudless sky
above. The sun's rays pierced it and gathered fire; the mighty river
beside us rolled listless and sullen, flinging back the heat defiantly.
And on our left was a tropical forest in all its bewildering luxuriance,
the live-oak, the hackberry, the myrtle, the Spanish bayonet in bristling
groups, and the shaded places gave out a scented moisture like an
orangery; anon we passed fields of corn and cotton, swamps of rice,
stretches of poverty-stricken indigo plants, gnawed to the stem by the
pest. Our ponies ambled on, unmindful; but Nick vowed that no woman
under heaven would induce him to undertake such a journey again.

Some three miles out of the city we descried two figures on horseback
coming towards us, and quickly perceived that one was a gentleman, the
other his black servant. They were riding at a more rapid pace than the
day warranted, but the gentleman reined in his sweating horse as he drew
near to us, eyed us with a curiosity tempered by courtesy, bowed gravely,
and put his horse to a canter again.

"Phew!" said Nick, twisting in his saddle, "I thought that all Creoles
were lazy."

"We have met the exception, perhaps," I answered. "Did you take in that
man?"

"His looks were a little remarkable, come to think of it," answered Nick,
settling down into his saddle again.

Indeed, the man's face had struck me so forcibly that I was surprised out
of an inquiry which I had meant to make of him, namely, how far we were
from the Saint-Gre plantation. We pursued our way slowly, from time to
time catching a glimpse of a dwelling almost hid in the distant foliage,
until at length we came to a place a little more pretentious than those
which we had seen. From the road a graceful flight of wooden steps
climbed the levee and descended on the far side to a boat landing, and a
straight vista cut through the grove, lined by wild orange trees,
disclosed the white pillars and galleries of a far-away plantation house.
The grassy path leading through the vista was trimly kept, and on either
side of it in the moist, green shade of the great trees flowers bloomed
in a profusion of startling colors,--in splotches of scarlet and white
and royal purple.

Nick slipped from his horse.

"Behold the mansion of Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre," said he, waving his
hand up the vista.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I am told by a part of me that never lies, Davy," he answered, laying
his hand upon his heart; "and besides," he added, "I should dislike
devilishly to go too far on such a day and have to come back again."

"We will rest here," I said, laughing, "and send in Benjy to find out."

"Davy," he answered, with withering contempt, "you have no more romance
in you than a turnip. We will go ourselves and see what befalls."

"Very well, then," I answered, falling in with his humor, "we will go
ourselves."

He brushed his face with his handkerchief, gave himself a pull here and a
pat there, and led the way down the alley. But we had not gone far
before he turned into a path that entered the grove on the right, and to
this likewise I made no protest. We soon found ourselves in a heavenly
spot,--sheltered from the sun's rays by a dense verdure,--and no one who
has not visited these Southern country places can know the teeming
fragrance there. One shrub (how well I recall it!) was like unto the
perfume of all the flowers and all the fruits, the very essence of the
delicious languor of the place that made our steps to falter. A bird
shot a bright flame of color through the checkered light ahead of us.
Suddenly a sound brought us to a halt, and we stood in a tense and
wondering silence. The words of a song, sung carelessly in a clear,
girlish voice, came to us from beyond.

"Je voudrais bien me marier,
Je voudrais bien me marier,
Mais j'ai qrand' peur de me tromper:
Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper:
Ils sont si malhonnetes!
Ma luron, ma lurette,
Ils sont si malhonnetes!
Ma luron, ma lure."

"We have come at the very zenith of opportunity," I whispered.

"Hush!" he said.

"Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,
Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,
Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
Ils trompent les fillettes,
Ma luron, ma lurette,
Ils trompent les fillettes,
Ma luron, ma lure."

"Eliminating Mr. Ritchie, I believe," said Nick, turning on me with a
grimace. "But hark again!"

"Je voudrais bien d'un officier:
Je voudrais bien d'un officier:
Je marcherais a pas carres,
Je marcherais a pas carres,
Dans ma joli' chambrette,
Ma luron, ma lurette
Dans ma joli' chambrette,
Ma luron, ma lure."

The song ceased with a sound that was half laughter, half sigh. Before I
realized what he was doing, Nick, instead of retracing his steps towards
the house, started forward. The path led through a dense thicket which
became a casino hedge, and suddenly I found myself peering over his
shoulder into a little garden bewildering in color. In the centre of the
garden a great live-oak spread its sheltering branches. Around the
gnarled trunk was a seat. And on the seat,--her sewing fallen into her
lap, her lips parted, her eyes staring wide, sat the young lady whom we
had seen on the levee the evening before. And Nick was making a bow in
his grandest manner.

"Helas, Mademoiselle," he said, "je ne suis pas officier, mais on peut
arranger tout cela, sans doute."

My breath was taken away by this unheard-of audacity, and I braced myself
against screams, flight, and other feminine demonstrations of terror.
The young lady did nothing of the kind. She turned her back to us,
leaned against the tree, and to my astonishment I saw her slim shoulders
shaken with laughter. At length, very slowly, she looked around, and in
her face struggled curiosity and fear and merriment. Nick made another
bow, worthy of Versailles, and she gave a frightened little laugh.

"You are English, Messieurs--yes?" she ventured.

"We were once!" cried Nick, "but we have changed, Mademoiselle."

"Et quoi donc?" relapsing into her own language.

"Americans," said he. "Allow me to introduce to you the Honorable David
Ritchie, whom you rejected a few moments ago."

"Whom I rejected?" she exclaimed.

"Alas," said Nick, with a commiserating glance at me, "he has the
misfortune to be a lawyer."

Mademoiselle shot at me the swiftest and shyest of glances, and turned to
us once more her quivering shoulders. There was a brief silence.

"Mademoiselle?" said Nick, taking a step on the garden path.

"Monsieur?" she answered, without so much as looking around.

"What, now, would you take this gentleman to be?" he asked with an
insistence not to be denied.

Again she was shaken with laughter, and suddenly to my surprise she
turned and looked full at me.

"In English, Monsieur, you call it--a gallant?"

My face fairly tingled, and I heard Nick laughing with unseemly
merriment.

"Ah, Mademoiselle," he cried, "you are a judge of character, and you have
read him perfectly."

"Then I must leave you, Messieurs," she answered, with her eyes in her
lap. But she made no move to go.

"You need have no fear of Mr. Ritchie, Mademoiselle," answered Nick,
instantly. "I am here to protect you against his gallantry."

This time Nick received the glance, and quailed before it.

"And who--par exemple--is to protect me against--you, Monsieur?" she
asked in the lowest of voices.

"You forget that I, too, am unprotected--and vulnerable, Mademoiselle,"
he answered.

Her face was hidden again, but not for long.

"How did you come?" she demanded presently.

"On air," he answered, "for we saw you in New Orleans yesterday."

"And--why?"

"Need you ask, Mademoiselle?" said the rogue, and then, with more
effrontery than ever, he began to sing:--

"'Je voudrais bien me marier,
Je voudrais bien me marier,
Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper.'"

She rose, her sewing falling to the ground, and took a few startled steps
towards us.

"Monsieur! you will be heard," she cried.

"And put out of the Garden of Eden," said Nick.

"I must leave you," she said, with the quaintest of English
pronunciation.

Yet she stood irresolute in the garden path, a picture against the dark
green leaves and the flowers. Her age might have been seventeen. Her
gown was of some soft and light material printed in buds of delicate
color, her slim arms bare above the elbow. She had the ivory complexion
of the province, more delicate than I had yet seen, and beyond that I
shall not attempt to describe her, save to add that she was such a
strange mixture of innocence and ingenuousness and coquetry as I had not
imagined. Presently her gaze was fixed seriously on me.

"Do you think it very wrong, Monsieur?" she asked.

I was more than taken aback by this tribute.

"Oh," cried Nick, "the arbiter of etiquette!"

"Since I am here, Mademoiselle," I answered, with anything but readiness,
"I am not a proper judge."

Her next question staggered me.

"You are well-born?" she asked.

"Mr. Ritchie's grandfather was a Scottish earl," said Nick, immediately,
a piece of news that startled me into protest. "It is true, Davy, though
you may not know it," he added.

"And you, Monsieur?" she said to Nick.

"I am his cousin,--is it not honor enough?" said he.

"Yet you do not resemble one another."

"Mr. Ritchie has all the good looks in the family," said Nick.

"Oh!" cried the young lady, and this time she gave us her profile.

"Come, Mademoiselle," said Nick, "since the fates have cast the die, let
us all sit down in the shade. The place was made for us."

"Monsieur!" she cried, giving back, "I have never in my life been alone
with gentlemen."

"But Mr. Ritchie is a duenna to satisfy the most exacting," said Nick;
"when you know him better you will believe me."

She laughed softly and glanced at me. By this time we were all three
under the branches.

"Monsieur, you do not understand the French customs. Mon Dieu, if the
good Sister Lorette could see me now--"

"But she is safe in the convent," said Nick. "Are they going to put
glass on the walls?"

"And why?" asked Mademoiselle, innocently.

"Because," said Nick, "because a very bad man has come to New
Orleans,--one who is given to climbing walls."

"You?"

"Yes. But when I found that a certain demoiselle had left the convent, I
was no longer anxious to climb them."

"And how did you know that I had left it?"

I was at a loss to know whether this were coquetry or innocence.

"Because I saw you on the levee," said Nick.

"You saw me on the levee?" she repeated, giving back.

"And I had a great fear," the rogue persisted.

"A fear of what?"

"A fear that you were married," he said, with a boldness that made me
blush. As for Mademoiselle, a color that vied with the June roses
charged through her cheeks. She stooped to pick up her sewing, but Nick
was before her.

"And why did you think me married?" she asked in a voice so low that we
scarcely heard.

"Faith," said Nick, "because you seemed to be quarrelling with a man."

She turned to him with an irresistible seriousness.

"And is that your idea of marriage, Monsieur?"

This time it was I who laughed, for he had been hit very fairly.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "I did not for a moment think it could have been
a love match."

Mademoiselle turned away and laughed.

"You are the very strangest man I have ever seen," she said.

"Shall I give you my notion of a love match, Mademoiselle?" said Nick.

"I should think you might be well versed in the subject, Monsieur," she
answered, speaking to the tree, "but here is scarcely the time and
place." She wound up her sewing, and faced him. "I must really leave
you," she said.

He took a step towards her and stood looking down into her face. Her
eyes dropped.

"And am I never to see you again?" he asked.

"Monsieur!" she cried softly, "I do not know who you are." She made him a
courtesy, took a few steps in the opposite path, and turned. "That
depends upon your ingenuity," she added; "you seem to have no lack of it,
Monsieur."