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 fete, and I sauntered out to see if there were any signs of her approach. Mademoiselle must know that it is no fete 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 dejeuner 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 fete 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 garcon-ca! 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 troisieme, 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 fete, 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 troisieme!"



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 Cerre 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 Cerre 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 dejeuner, 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! Sacre 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 Cerre 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 Riviere, 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'Eglise 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 garcon!" 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'Eglise 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'Eglise 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 "Bete!" 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, "Bete!"

"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 role 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 Cerre 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 garcon-ca." 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'Eglise, faster and faster, as mademoiselle clung closer, until we reached the gate of Emigre'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:

"A bas, Leon! Tais-toi, mon ange!"



CHAPTER X

LA GUIGNOLEE

"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.