Until then it seemed as if the sun had gotten into my, brain and set it on fire.Her words had the strange effect of clearing my head, though I was still in as sad a predicament as ever I found myself.There was the thing in my pocket, still wrapped in Polly Ann's handkerchief.Iglanced at the Vicomtesse shyly, and turned away again.
Her face was all repressed laughter, the expression I knew so well.
``I think we should feel better in the shade, Mr.Ritchie,''
she said in English, and, leaping lightly down from the bank, crossed the road again.I followed her, perforce.
``I will show you the way to Lamarque's,'' she said.
``Madame la Vicomtesse!'' I cried.
Had she no curiosity? Was she going to let pass what Auguste had hinted? Lifting up her skirts, she swung round and faced me.In her eyes was a calmness more baffling than the light I had seen there but a moment since.How to begin I knew not, and yet I was launched.
``Madame la Vicomtesse, there was once a certain miniature painted of you.''
``By Boze, Monsieur,'' she answered, readily enough.
The embarrassment was all on my side.``We spoke of it last evening.I remember well when it was taken.It was the costume I wore at Chantilly, and Monsieur le Prince complimented me, and the next day the painter himself came to our hotel in the Rue de Bretagne and asked the honor of painting me.'' She sighed.``Ah, those were happy days! Her Majesty was very angry with me.''
``And why?'' I asked, forgetful of my predicament.
``For sending it to Louisiana, to Antoinette.''
``And why did you send it?''
``A whim,'' said the Vicomtesse.``I had always written twice a year either to Monsieur de St.Gre or Antoinette, and although I had never seen them, I loved them.Perhaps it was because they had the patience to read my letters and the manners to say they liked them.''
``Surely not, Madame,'' I said.``Monsieur de St.Gre spoke often to me of the wonderful pictures you drew of the personages at court.''
Madame la Vicomtesse had an answer on the tip of her tongue.I know now that she spared me.
``And what of this miniature, Monsieur?'' she asked.
``What became of it after you restored it to its rightful owner?''
I flushed furiously and fumbled in my pocket.
``I obtained it again, Madame,'' I said.
``You obtained it!'' she cried, I am not sure to this day whether in consternation or jest.In passing, it was not just what I wanted to say.
``I meant to give it you last night,'' I said.
``And why did you not?'' she demanded severely.
I felt her eyes on me, and it seemed to me as if she were looking into my very soul.Even had it been otherwise, I could not have told her how I had lived with this picture night and day, how I had dreamed of it, how it had been my inspiration and counsel.I drew it from my pocket, wrapped as it was in the handkerchief, and uncovered it with a reverence which she must have marked, for she turned away to pick a yellow flower by the roadside.I thank Heaven that she did not laugh.Indeed, she seemed to be far from laughter.
``You have taken good care of it, Monsieur,'' she said.
``I thank you.''
``It was not mine, Madame,'' I answered.
``And if it had been?'' she asked.
It was a strange prompting.
``If it had been, I could have taken no better care of it,''
I answered, and I held it towards her.
She took it simply.
``And the handkerchief?'' she said.
``The handkerchief was Polly Ann's,'' I answered.
She stopped to pick a second flower that had grown by the first.
``Who is Polly Ann?'' she said.
``When I was eleven years of age and ran away from Temple Bow after my father died, Polly Ann found me in the hills.When she married Tom McChesney they took me across the mountains into Kentucky with them.Polly Ann has been more than a mother to me.''
``Oh!'' said Madame la Vicomtesse.Then she looked at me with a stranger expression than I had yet seen in her face.She thrust the miniature in her gown, turned, and walked in silence awhile.Then she said:--``So Auguste sold it again?''
``Yes,'' I said.
``He seems to have found a ready market only in you,''
said the Vicomtesse, without turning her head.``Here we are at Lamarque's.''
What I saw was a low, weather-beaten cabin on the edge of a clearing, and behind it stretched away in prim rows the vegetables which the old Frenchman had planted.
There was a little flower garden, too, and an orchard.
A path of beaten earth led to the door, which was open.
There we paused.Seated at a rude table was Lamarque himself, his hoary head bent over the cards he held in his hand.Opposite him was Mr.Nicholas Temple, in the act of playing the ace of spades.I think that it was the laughter of Madame la Vicomtesse that first disturbed them, and even then she had time to turn to me.
``I like your cousin,'' she whispered.
``Is that you, St.Gre?'' said Nick.``I wish to the devil you would learn not to sneak.You frighten me.
Where the deuce did you go to?''
But Lamarque had seen the lady, stared at her wildly for a moment, and rose, dropping his cards on the floor.
He bowed humbly, not without trepidation.
``Madame la Vicomtesse!'' he said.
By this time Nick had risen, and he, too, was staring at her.How he managed to appear so well dressed was a puzzle to me.
``Madame,'' he said, bowing, ``I beg your pardon.Ithought you were that--I beg your pardon.''
``I understand your feelings, sir,'' answered the Vicomtesse as she courtesied.
``Egad,'' said Nick, and looked at her again.``Egad, I'll be hanged if it's not--''
It was the first time I had seen the Vicomtesse in confusion.And indeed if it were confusion she recovered instantly.
``You will probably be hanged, sir, if you do not mend your company,'' she said.``Do you not think so, Mr.
Ritchie?''
``Davy!'' he cried.And catching sight of me in the doorway, over her shoulder, ``Has he followed me here too?'' Running past the Vicomtesse, he seized me in his impulsive way and searched my face.``So you have followed me here, old faithful! Madame,'' he added, turning to the Vicomtesse, ``there is some excuse for my getting into trouble.''
