We slipped southward on the great, yellow river which parted the wilderness, with its sucks and eddies and green islands, every one of which Monsieur knew, and I saw again the flocks of water-fowl and herons in procession, and hawks and vultures wheeling in their search.Sometimes a favorable wind sprang up, and we hoisted the sail.We passed the Walnut Hills, the Nogales, the moans of the alligators broke our sleep by night, and at length we came to Natchez, ruled over now by that watch-dog of the Spanish King, Gayoso de Lemos.Thanks to Monsieur Vigo, his manners were charming and his hospitality gracious, and there was no trouble whatever about my passport.
Our progress was slow when we came at last to the belvedered plantation houses amongst the orange groves;and as we sat on the wide galleries in the summer nights, we heard all the latest gossip of the capital of Louisiana.
The river was low; there was an ominous quality in the heat which had its effect, indeed, upon me, and made the old Creoles shake their heads and mutter a word with a terrible meaning.New Orleans was a cesspool, said the enlightened.The Baron de Carondelet, indefatigable man, aimed at digging a canal to relieve the city of its filth, but this would be the year when it was most needed, and it was not dug.Yes, Monsieur le Baron was energy itself.That other fever--the political one--he had scotched.``Ca Ira'' and ``La Marseillaise'' had been sung in the theatres, but not often, for the Baron had sent the alcaldes to shut them up.Certain gentlemen of French ancestry had gone to languish in the Morro at Havana.
Yes, Monsieur de Carondelet, though fat, was on horseback before dawn, New Orleans was fortified as it never had been before, the militia organized, real cannon were on the ramparts which could shoot at a pinch.
Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters with the Rights of Man.What had become, they asked, of the expedition of Citizen General Clark preparing in the North? They may have sighed secretly when Ipainted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these planters.Strangly enough, the name of Auguste de St.
Gre never crossed their lips, and I got no trace of him or Nick at any of these places.Was it possible that they might not have come to New Orleans after all?
Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning with a tropical fierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned himself to his siestas, I thought.It was perhaps characteristic of me that I waited nearly three weeks to confide in my old friend the purpose of my journey to New Orleans.
It was not because I could not trust him that I held my tongue, but because I sought some way of separating the more intimate story of Nick's mother and his affair with Antoinette de St.Gre from the rest of the story.But Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, and I reflected that a time might come when I should need his help.One evening, when we were tied up under the oaks of a bayou, I told him.There emanated from Monsieur Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and this I felt strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long intervals to ask a question.It was a still night, Iremember, of great beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over the forest line, the air heavy with odors and vibrant with a thousand insect tones.
``And what you do, Davy?'' he said at length.
``I must find my cousin and St.Gre before they have a chance to get into much mischief,'' I answered.``If they have already made a noise, I thought of going to the Baron de Carondelet and telling him what I know of the expedition.
He will understand what St.Gre is, and I will explain that Mr.Temple's reckless love of adventure is at the bottom of his share in the matter.''
``Bon, Davy,'' said my host, ``if you go, I go with you.
But I believe ze Baron think Morro good place for them jus' the sem.Ze Baron has been make miserable with Jacobins.But I go with you if you go.''
He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the St.Gre's, their public services, and before he went to sleep he made the very just remark that there was a flaw in every string of beads.As for me, I went down into the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from my pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely come into my possession once more.The face upon it had haunted me since I had first beheld it.The miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which Polly Ann had bought for me in Lexington.Shall I confess it?--Ihad carefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at the back, and the picture lacked now only the gold setting.
As for the face, I had a kind of consolation from it.Iseemed to draw of its strength when I was tired, of its courage when I faltered.And, during those four days of indecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words that I could not evade or forget, ``Go to New Orleans.''
It was a sentiment--foolish, if you please--which could not resist.Nay, which I did not try to resist, for I had little enough of it in my life.What did it matter?
I should never see Madame la Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour.
She was Helene to me; and the artist had caught the strength of her soul in her clear-cut face, in the eyes that flashed with wit and courage,--eyes that seemed to look with scorn upon what was mean in the world and untrue, with pity on the weak.Here was one who might have governed a province and still have been a woman, one who had taken into exile the best of safeguards against misfortune,--humor and an indomitable spirit.
