I stood staring at the portrait, I say, with a kind of fascination that astonished me, seeing that it had come to me in such a way.It was no French face of my imagination, and as I looked it seemed to me that I knew Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre.And yet I smile as I write this, realizing full well that my strange and foreign surroundings and my unforeseen adventure had much to do with my state of mind.The lady in the miniature might have been eighteen, or thirty-five.Her features were of the clearest cut, the nose the least trifle aquiline, and by a blurred outline the painter had given to the black hair piled high upon the head a suggestion of waviness.The eyebrows were straight, the brown eyes looked at the world with an almost scornful sense of humor, and I marked that there was determination in the chin.Here was a face that could be infinitely haughty or infinitely tender, a mouth of witty--nay, perhaps cutting--repartee of brevity and force.A lady who spoke quickly, moved quickly, or reposed absolutely.A person who commanded by nature and yet (dare I venture the thought?) was capable of a supreme surrender.I was aroused from this odd revery by footsteps on the gallery, and Nick burst into the room.
Without pausing to look about him, he flung himself lengthwise on the bed on top of the mosquito bar.
``A thousand curses on such a place,'' he cried; ``it is full of rat holes and rabbit warrens.''
``Did you catch your man?'' I asked innocently.
``Catch him!'' said Nick, with a little excusable profanity; ``he went in at one end of such a warren and came out at another.I waited for him in two streets until an officious person chanced along and threatened to take me before the Alcalde.What the devil is that you have got in your hand, Davy?'' he demanded, raising his head.
``A miniature that took my fancy, and which I bought.''
He rose from the bed, yawned, and taking it in his hand, held it to the light.I watched him curiously.
``Lord,'' he said, ``it is such a passion as I might have suspected of you, Davy.''
``There was nothing said about passion,'' I answered``Then why the deuce did you buy it?'' he said with some pertinence.
This staggered me.
``A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a passion, I suppose,'' I replied.
Nick held the picture at arm's length in the palm of his hand and regarded it critically.
``Faith,'' said he, ``you may thank heaven it is only a picture.If such a one ever got hold of you, Davy, she would general you even as you general me.Egad,'' he added with a laugh, ``there would be no more walking the streets at night in search of adventure for you.Consider carefully the masterful features of that lady and thank God you haven't got her.''
I was inclined to be angry, but ended by laughing.
``There will be no rivalry between us, at least,'' I said.
``Rivalry!'' exclaimed Nick.``Heaven forbid that Ishould aspire to such abject slavery.When I marry, it will be to command.''
``All the more honor in such a conquest,'' I suggested.
``Davy,'' said he, ``I have long been looking for some such flaw in your insuperable wisdom.But I vow I can keep my eyes open no longer.Benjy!
A smothered response came from the other side of the wall, and Benjy duly appeared in the doorway, blinking at the candlelight, to put his master to bed.
We slept that night with no bed covering save the mosquito bar, as was the custom in New Orleans.Indeed, the heat was most oppressive, but we had become to some extent inured to it on the boat, and we were both in such sound health that our slumbers were not disturbed.Early in the morning, however, I was awakened by a negro song from the court-yard, and I lay pleasantly for some minutes listening to the early sounds, breathing in the aroma of coffee which mingled with the odor of the flowers of the court, until Zoey herself appeared in the doorway, holding a cup in her hand.I arose, and taking the miniature from the table, gazed at it in the yellow morning light; and then, having dressed myself, I put it carefully in my pocket and sat down at my portfolio to compose a letter to Polly Ann, knowing that a description of what I had seen in New Orleans would amuse her.This done, I went out into the gallery, where Madame was already seated at her knitting, in the shade of the great tree that stood in the corner of the court and spread its branches over the eaves.She arose and courtesied, with a questioning smile.
``Madame,'' I asked, ``is it too early to present myself to Monsieur de Saint-Gre?''
``Pardieu, no, Monsieur, we are early risers in the South for we have our siesta.You are going to return the portrait, Monsieur?''
I nodded.
``God bless you for the deed,'' said she.``Tenez, Monsieur,'' she added, stepping closer to me, ``you will tell his father that you bought it from Monsieur Auguste?''
I saw that she had a soft spot in her heart for the rogue.
``I will make no promises, Madame,'' I answered.
She looked at me timidly, appealingly, but I bowed and departed.The sun was riding up into the sky, the walls already glowing with his heat, and a midsummer languor seemed to pervade the streets as I walked along.
The shadows now were sharply defined, the checkered foliage of the trees was flung in black against the yellow-white wall of the house with the lions, and the green-latticed gallery which we had watched the night before seemed silent and deserted.I knocked at the gate, and presently a bright-turbaned gardienne opened it.
Was Monsieur de Saint-Gre at home.The gardienne looked me over, and evidently finding me respectable, replied with many protestations of sorrow that he was not, that he had gone with Mamselle very early that morning to his country place at Les Iles.This information Iextracted with difficulty, for I was not by any means versed in the negro patois.
As I walked back to Madame Bouvet's I made up my mind that there was but the one thing to do, to go at once to Monsieur de Saint-Gre's plantation.Finding Madame still waiting in the gallery, I asked her to direct me thither.
