 Book 3, Chapter 10 of the Crossing by Winston Churchill. As we went through the court, I felt as though I had been tied to a string, suspended in the air, and spun. This was undoubtedly due to the heat. And after the astonishing conversation from which we had come, my admiration for the lady beside me was magnified to a veritable awe. We reached the archway. Madame Lovicantessa held me lightly by the edge of my coat, and I stood looking down at her. "'Wait a minute, Mr. Richie,' she said, glancing at the few figures hurrying across the plos-darms. Those are only Americans, and they're too busy to see us standing here. What do you propose to do now? We must get word to Nick as we promised, that he may know what to expect,' I replied. "'Suppose we go to more sure to Songri's house and write him a letter?' "'No,' said Lovicantessa, with decision, "'I'm going to Mrs. Temple's. I shall write the letter from there and send it by André, and you will go direct to Madame Gravoise.' Her glance rested anxiously upon my face, and there came an expression in her eyes which disturbed me strangely. I had not known it since the days when Polly Anne used to mother me, but I did not mean to give up. "'I'm not tired, Madame Lovicantessa,' I answered, and I will go with you to Mrs. Temple's. "'Give me your hand,' she said, and smiled. "'André and my maid are used to my vagaries, and your own countrymen will not mind. Give me your hand, Mr. Richie. I gave it willingly enough, with a thrill as she took it between her own. The same anxious look was in her eyes, and not the least embarrassment. "'There! It is hot and dry, as I feared,' she said, and you seemed flushed.' She dropped my hand, and there was a touch of irritation in her voice as she continued. "'You seemed fairly sensible when I first met you last night, Mr. Richie. Are you losing your sanity? Do you not realize that you cannot take liberties with this climate? Do as I say, and go to Madame Gravoise at once.' "'It's my pleasure to obey you, Madame Lovicantessa,' I answered. But I mean to go with you, as far as Mrs. Temple's, to see how she fares. She may be worse. "'There's no reason why you should kill yourself,' said Madame, coldly. "'Will you not do as I say?' "'I think that I should go to Mrs. Temple's,' I answered. She did not reply to that, letting down her veil impatiently, with a deafness that characterized all her movements. Without so much as asking me to come after her, she reached the banquette, and I walked by her side through the streets, silent and troubled by her displeasure. My pride forbade me to do as she wished. It was the hottest part of a burning day, and the dome of the sky was like a brazen bell above us. We passed the Colobozo, with its iron gates and tiny-grilled windows pierced in the massive walls, behind which, you know, languished, and I could not replace a smile as I thought of him. Even the Spaniard sometimes happened upon justice. In the Rube Urban, when the little shops were empty, the store-stepp where my Mary Fiddler had played, vacant, and the very air seemed to simmer above the honey-combed tiles, I knocked at the door, once, twice, there was no answer. I looked at Madame Lavicantessa and knocked again so loudly that the little tailor across the street, his shirt opened at the neck, flung out his shutter. Suddenly there was a noise within, the door was open, and Lindy stood before us in the darkened room, with terror in her eyes. "'O, mas dave,' she cried, as we entered. "'O, madame, I so glad you come, I so glad you's come.' She burst into a flood of tears, and Madame Lavicantessa, raising her veil, seized the girl by the arm. "'What is it?' she said. "'What is the matter, Lindy?' Madame's touch seemed to steady her. "'Miss Sally,' she moaned. "'Miss Sally, don't get the yellow fever.' There was a moment's silence, for we were both too appalled by the news to speak. "'Lindy, are you sure?' said the Vicantessa. "'Yes, I'm, yes, I'm,' Lindy sobbed. "'I reckon I done cede enough of it, Misses.' And she went into a hysterical fit of weeping. The Vicantessa turned to her own frightened servants in the doorway, bait Andre and French to run for Dr. Perrin, and herself closed the baton doors. There was a moment when her face, as I saw it, was graven on my memory, reflecting a knowledge of the evils of this world, a spirit above and untouched by them, a power to accept what life may bring, with no outward sign of pleasure or dismay. Doubtless thus she had made King and Cardinal laugh. Doubtless thus, ministering to those who crossed her path, she had met her own calamities. Most of all was the effect she had upon Lindy, for the girl ceased crying as she watched her. Madame La Vicantessa turned to me. "'You must go at once,' she said. "'When you get to Madame Gravoise, right to Mr. Temple, I will send Andre to you there.' She started for the bedroom door, Lindy making way for her. I scarcely knew what I did as I spring forward and took the Vicantessa by the arm. "'Where are you going?' I cried. "'You cannot go in there. You cannot go in there.' It did not seem strange that she turned to me without anger, that she did not seek to release her arm. It did not seem strange that her look had in it a gentleness as she spoke. "'I must,' she said. "'I cannot let you risk your life,' I cried, wolly, forgetting myself. "'There are others who will do this.' "'Others,' she said. "'I will go. I have nursed people before this. And there is Lindy.' A smile quivered on her lips. Or was it a smile? "'Will you do as I say and go to Madame Gravoise at once?' She murmured, striving for the first time to free herself. "'If you stay, I stay,' I answered. "'And if you die, I die.' She looked up into my eyes for a fleeting instant. "'Right to Mr. Temple,' she said. "'Dazed,' I watched her open the bedroom doors, motioned to Lindy to pass through. And then she had closed them again, and I was alone in the darkened parlor. The throbbing in my head was gone, and a great clearness had come with a great fear. I stood, I know not how long, listening to the groans that came through the wall, for Mrs. Temple was in agony. At intervals I heard Helene's voice, and then the groans seemed to stop. Ten times I went to the bedroom door, and as many times drew away again my heart leaping within me at the peril which she faced. If I had had the right, I believe I would have carried her away by force. But I had not the right. I sat down heavily by the table to think, and it might have been a cry of agony sharper than the rest that reminded me once more of the tragedy of the poor lady and torture. My eye fell upon the table, and there, as though prepared for what I was to do, lay pen and paper, ink and sand. My hand shook as I took the quill and tried to compose a letter to my cousin. I scarcely saw the words which I put on the sheet, and I may be forgiven for the unwisdom of that which I wrote. The barone de Caron de Lé will send an officer to you tonight, so that you may escape observation in custody. His Excellency knew of your hiding place, but is inclined to be lenient, will allow you tomorrow to go to the Rue Bourbon, and well without doubt permit you to leave the province. Your mother is ill, and Madame LaVicantessa and myself are with her. David. In the state I was it took me a long time to compose this much, and I had barely finished it when there was a knock at the outer door. There was André. He had the immobility of face which sometimes goes with the malato, and always with the trained servant, as he informed me that Mosheur LaMedicine was not at home, but that he had left word. There was an epidemic Mosheur, so André feared. I gave him the note and his directions, and ten minutes after he had gone I would have given much to have called him back. How was Antoinette, alone at Léels? Why had I not thought of her? She had told her nothing that morning, Madame LaVicantessa and I, after our conference with Nick. For the girl had shot herself in her room, and Madame had thought it best not to disturb her at such a stage. But would she not be alarmed when Aline failed to return that night? Had circumstances been different, I myself would have ridden to Léels. And no inducement now could make me desert the post I had chosen. After many years I disliked to recall to memory that long afternoon which I spent helpless, in the room bourbon. Now I was on my feet, pacing restlessly the short breadth of the room, trying to shut out from my mind the horrors of which my ears gave testimony. Again in the intervals of quiet I sat with my elbows on the table, and my head and my hands, striving to allay the throbbing in my temples. Pains came and went, and at times I felt like a faggot flung into the fire, I who had never known a sick day. At times my throat pained me, an odd symptom in a warm climate. Troubled as I was in mind and body, the thought of Aline's quiet heroism upheld me through it all. More than once I had my hand raised to knock at the bedroom door and ask if I could help, but I dared not. At length the sun, having done its worst and spent its fury, I began to hear steps along the banquet and voices almost at my elbow, beyond the little window. At every noise appeared out, hoping for the doctor, but he did not come. And then as I fell back into the faute, there was born on my consciousness a sound I had heard before. It was the music of the fiddler. It was a tune I knew, and the voices of the children were singing the refrain. —N'est-ce qu'on ver'n de, n'est-ce qu'on ver'n de! I rose, opened the door, and slipped out of it, and I must have made a strange, hatless figure as I came upon the fiddler and his children from across the street. —Stop that noise!—I cried in French, angered beyond all reason at the thought of music at such a time. —Idiots! There's yellow fever there! The little man stomped with his bow raised, for a moment they all stared at me, transfixed. It was a little elf in blue and dean who jumped first and ran down the street, crying the news in a shrill voice, the others following, the fiddler gazing stupidly after them. Suddenly he scrambled up, moaning, as if the scourge itself had fastened on him, backed into the house and slammed the door in my face. I returned with slow steps to shut myself in the darkened room again, and I recall feeling something of triumph over the consternation I had caused. No sounds came from the bedroom, and after that the street was quiet as death, save for an occasional frightened, hurrying footfall. I was tired. All at once the bedroom door opened softly and Haleen was standing there looking at me. At first I saw her dimly as in a vision, then clearly. I leaped to my feet and went and stood beside her. The doctor has not come, I said. Where does he live? I will go for him. She shook her head. He can do no good. Lindy has procured all the remedies such as they are. They can only serve to alleviate, she answered. She cannot withstand this, poor lady. There were tears in Haleen's lashes. Her sufferings have been frightful. Frightful. Cannot I help, I said thickly. Cannot I do something? She shook her head. She raised her hand timidly to the lapel of my coat, and suddenly I felt her palm cool and firm upon my forehead. It rested there for an instant. You ought not to be here, she said, her voice vibrant with earnestness and concern. You ought not to be here. Will you not go? If I ask it, I cannot, I said. You know I cannot if you stay. She did not answer that. Our eyes met, and in that instant for me there was neither joy nor sorrow, sickness nor death, nor time nor space nor universe. It was she who turned away. Have you ridden him? She asked in a low voice. Yes, I answered. She would not have known him, said Haleen. After all these years of waiting she would not have known him. Her punishment has been great. A sound came from the bedroom, and Haleen was gone, silently, as she had come. I must have been dozing in the fautee, for suddenly I found myself setting up, listening to an unwanted noise. I knew from the count of the hoof-beats, which came from down the street, that a horse was galloping in long strides. A spent horse, for the timing was irregular. Then he was pulled up into a trot, then to a walk, as I ran to the door and opened it, and beheld Nicholas Temple, flinging himself from a pony, white with lather. And he was alone. He caught sight of me as soon as his foot touched the banquet. What are you doing here? I cried. What are you doing here? He halted on the edge of the banquet as a hurrying man runs into a wall. He had been all excitement, all fury, as he jumped from his horse. And now, as he looked at me, he seemed to lose his bearings to be all bewilderment. He cried out my name, and stood looking at me like a fool. What the devil do you mean by coming here? I cried. Did I not write you to stay where you were? How did you get here? I stepped down on the banquet and seized him by the shoulders. Did you receive my letter? Yes, he said. Yes, for a moment that was as far as he got. And he glanced down the street, and then at the heaving beast he had written, which stood with head, drooping to the kennel. Then he laid hold of me. Davey, is it true that she has yellow fever? Is it true? Who told you? I demanded angrily. Andre, he answered. Andre said that the lady here had yellow fever. Is it true? Yes, I said, almost inaudibly. He let his hand fall from my shoulder, and he shivered. May God forgive me for what I've done, he said. Where is she? For what you've done, I cried. You have done an insensate thing to come here. Suddenly I remembered the sentry at the gate of Fort St. Charles. How did you get into the city, I said? Were you mad to defy the baron and his police? Damn the baron and his police, he answered, striving to pass me. Let me in. Let me see her. Even as he spoke I caught sight of men coming into the street, perhaps at the corner of the rue Saint-Pierre, and then more men. And as we went into the house I saw that they were running. I closed the doors, there were cries in the street now, but he did not seem to heed them. He stood listening, heart-stricken, to the sounds that came through the bedroom wall, and a spasm crossed his face. Then he turned like a man not to be denied, to the bedroom door. I was before him, but Madame Lavicantessa opened it, and I remember feeling astonishment that she did not show surprise or alarm. What are you doing here, Mr. Temple? She said. My mother, Madame, my mother, I must go to her. He pushed past her into the bedroom, and I followed her force. I shall never forget the scene, though I had but one glimpse of it, the raiding yellowed woman in the bed, not a spectre nor yet even a semblance of the beauty of Temple Beau. But she was his mother, upon whom God had brought such a retribution as he alone can bestow. Lindy, faithful servant to the inn, held the wasted hands of her mistress against the violence they would have done. Lindy held them, her own body rocking with grief, her lips murmuring endearments, their supplications. Miss Sally, honey, don't you know Lindy? God let you get well, Miss Sally, God let you get well, honey, to see Mars Nick, to see Mars Nick. The words died on Windy's lips, the ravings of the frenzied woman ceased. The yellowed hands fell limply to the sheet, the shrunken form stiffened. The eyes of the mother looked upon the sun, and in them at first was the terror of one who seized the infinite. Then they softened, until they became again the only feature that was left of Sarah Temple. Now as she looked at him who was her pride, her honor, for one sight of whom she had prayed, eye and even blasphemed, her eyes were all tenderness. Then she spoke. Harry? Harry, she said softly, be good to me, dear, you are all I have now. She spoke of Harry Riddle. But the long years of penance had not been in vain, Nick had forgiven her. We saw him kneeling at the bedside, we saw him with her hand in his, and Helene was drawing me gently out of the room and closing the door behind her. She did not look at me, nor I at her. We stood for a moment close together, and suddenly the cries in the street brought us back from the drama in the low-ceilinged, reeking room we had left. Ichi, ichi, fuschile Chanel! There was a loud rapping at the outer door and a voice demanding admittance in Spanish in the name of His Excellency the Governor. Open it, said Helene. There was neither excitement in her voice nor yet resignation. In those two words were told the philosophy of her life. I opened the door. There on the step was an officer, perspiring, uniformed and plumed, behind him a crowd of eager faces, white and black, that seemed to fill the street. He took a step into the room, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and poured out at me a torrent of Spanish of which I understood nothing. All at once his eye fell upon Helene, who was standing behind me, and he stopped in the middle of his speech and pulled off his hat and bowed profoundly. Madame la Vicumtessa, he stammered. I was in no little surprise that you should be so well known. You were pleased to speak French, mature, she said. This gentleman does not understand Spanish. What is it you desire? A thousand pardons, Madame la Vicumtessa, he said. I am the Alcalde de Barrio, and a wild Americano has passed the century at St. Charles' Gate without heeding his Excellency's authority and command. I saw the man with my own eyes. I should know him again in a hundred. We have traced him here to this house, Madame la Vicumtessa, behold the horse which he rode. The Alcalde turned and pointed at the beast. Behold the horse which he rode, Madame la Vicumtessa. The animal will die, probably answered the Vicumtessa in an even tone. But the man cried the Alcalde. The man is here, Madame la Vicumtessa. Here in this house. Yes, she said. He is here. Sancta Maria, Madame, he exclaimed. I who speak to you have come to get him. He has defied his Excellency's commands. Where is he? He is in that room, said the Vicumtessa, pointing at the bedroom door. The Alcalde took a step forward. She stopped him with a quick gesture. He is in that room with his mother, she said, and his mother has the yellow fever. Come, we will go to him, and she put her hand upon the door. Yellow fever? cried the Alcalde, and his voice was thick with terror. There was a moment's silence as he stood rooted to the floor. I did not wonder then, but I have since thought it remarkable that the words spoken low by both of them should have been caught up on the banquet and passed into the street. Impassive, I heard it echoed from a score of throats. I saw men and women stampeding like frightened sheep. I heard their footfalls and their cries as they ran. A tawdrid constable who held with a trembling hand the bridle of the tired horse alone remained. Yellow fever? the Alcalde repeated. The Vicumtessa inclined her head. He was silent again for a while, uncertain, and then, without comprehending, I saw the man's eyes grow smaller and a smile play upon his mouth. He looked at the Vicumtessa with a new admiration to which she paid no heed. I am sorry, Madame Vicumtessa, he began. But you do not believe that I speak the truth, she replied quietly. He winced. Will you follow me? She said, turning again. He had started, plainly in an agony of fear, when a sound came from beyond the wall that brought a cry to his lips. Her manner changed to one of stinging scorn. You are a coward, she said. I will bring the gentleman to you if he can be got to leave the bed side. No, said the Alcalde. No, I will go to him, Madame Vicumtessa. But she did not open the door. Listen, she said, in a tone of authority, I myself have been to his excellency today concerning this gentleman. You, Madame Vicumtessa, I will open the door, she continued, impatient at the interruption. And you will see him. Then I shall write a letter which you will take to the governor. The gentleman will not try to escape for his mother is dying. Besides, he could not get out of the city. You may leave your constable where he is, or the man may come in and stand at this door inside of the gentleman while you are gone, if he pleases. And then, said the Alcalde, it is my belief that his excellency will allow the gentleman to remain here and that you will be relieved from the necessity of running any further risk. As she spoke, she opened the door softly. The room was still now, still as death, and the Alcalde went forward on tiptoe. I saw him peering in. I saw him backing away again like a man in mortal fear. Yes, it is he. It is the man. He stammered. He put his hand to his brow. The Vicum Tessa closed the door, and without a glance at him went quickly to the table and began to write. She had no thought of consulting the man again, of asking his permission. Although she wrote rapidly, five minutes must have gone by before the note was finished and folded and sealed. She held it out to him. Take this to his excellency, she said, and bring me his answer. The Alcalde bowed, murmured her title, and went lamely out of the house. He was plainly in an agony of uncertainty as to his duty, but he glanced at the Vicum Tessa and went, flipping the note nervously with his fingernail. He paused for a few low-spoken words with the tawdry constable who sat down on the banquet after his chief had gone, still clinging to the bridle. The Vicum Tessa went to the doorway, looked at him, and closed the batten doors. The constable did not protest. The day was fading without, and the room was almost in darkness as she crossed over to the little mantle and stood with her head laid upon her arm. I did not disturb her. The minutes passed, the light waned until I could see her no longer, and yet I knew that she had not moved. The strange sympathy between us kept me silent until I heard her voice calling my name. Yes, I answered. The candle I drew out my tinderbox and lighted the wick. She had turned and was facing me even as she had faced me the night before. The night before. The greatest part of my life seemed to have passed since then. I remember wondering that she did not look tired. Her face was sad, her voice was sad, and it had an ineffable sweet quality at such times that was all its own. The al-Kaldi should be coming back, she said. Yes, I answered. These were our words, yet we scarce heeded their meaning. Between us was drawn a subtler communion, then speech, and we dared, neither of us, to risk speech. She searched my face, but her lips were closed. She did not take my hand again, as in the afternoon she turned away. I knew what she would have said. There was a knock at the door. We went together to open it, and the al-Kaldi stood on the step. He held in his hand a long letter on which the red seal caught the light, and he gave the letter to the Vaikomtesa with a bow. From his excellency, Madame Lavikomtesa, she broke the seal, went to the table, and read, then she looked up at me. It is the governor's permit for Mr. Temple to remain in this house. Thank you, she said to the al-Kaldi. You may go. And my respectful wishes for the continued good health of Madame Lavikomtesa, said the al-Kaldi. CHAPTER XI The al-Kaldi had stopped on the step with an exclamation at something in the darkness outside, and debacked, bowing into the room again to make way for someone. A lady, slim, gowned, and veiled in black, and followed by a negris, swept past him. The lady lifted her veil and stood before us. Antoinette exclaimed the Vaikomtesa, going to her. The girl did not answer at once. Her suffering seemed to have brought upon her a certain acceptance of misfortune as inevitable. Her face, framed in the black veil, was never more beautiful than on that night. What is the al-Kaldi doing here, she said. The officer himself answered the question. I am leaving, Madame Azale, said he. He reached out his hands towards her, appealingly. Do you not remember me, Madame Azale? You brought the good sister to see my wife. I remember you, said Antoinette. Do not stay here, Madame Azale, he cried. There is yellow fever. So that is it, said Antoinette, unheeding him and looking at her cousin. She has yellow fever, then. I beg you to come away, Madame Azale, the man entreated. Please go, she said to him. He looked at her and went out silently, closing the door after him. Why was he here? She asked again. He came to get Mr. Temple, my dear, said the Vaikomtesa. The girl's lips framed his name, but did not speak it. Where is he? She asked slowly. The Vaikomtesa pointed towards the bedroom. In there, she answered, with his mother. He came to her, Antoinette asked quite simply. The Vaikomtesa glanced at me and drew the veil gently from the girl's shoulders. She led her, unresisting, to the chair. I looked at them. The difference in their ages was not so great. Both had suffered cruelly. One had seen the world, the other had not. And yet the contrast lay not here. Both had followed the gospel of healthfulness to others. But one, as a religious, innocent of the sin around her, though poignant of the sorrow it caused. The other, knowing evil with an insight that went far beyond intuition, fought with that too. I will tell you, Antoinette, began the Vaikomtesa. It was as you said, Mr. Richie and I found him at Lamarx. He had not taken your money. He did not even know that Auguste had gone to see you. He did not even know, she said, bending over the girl, that he was on your father's plantation. When we told him that, he would have left it at once. Yes, she said. He did not know that his mother was still in New Orleans, and when we told him how ill she was, he would have come to her then. It was as much as we could do to persuade him to wait until we had seen Moshe or D. Carone delay. Mr. Richie and I came directly to town and saw his Excellency. It was characteristic of the Vaikomtesa that she told us almost with a man's brevity, that she omitted the stress and trouble and pain of it all. These things were done. The tack and skill and character of her who had accomplished them were not spoken of. The girl listened immovable. Her lips parted and her eyes far away. Suddenly, with an awakening, she turned to Helene. Who did this, she cried. Mr. Richie and I together, said the Vaikomtesa. Her next exclamation was an odd one, showing how the mind works at such a time, but his Excellency was having his siesta, said Antoinette. Again Helene glanced at me, but I cannot be sure that she smiled. We thought the matter of sufficient importance to awake his Excellency, said Helene. And his Excellency, asked Antoinette. In that moment all three of us seem to have forgotten the tragedy behind the wall. His Excellency thought so too when we had explained it sufficiently, Helene answered. The girl seemed suddenly to throw off the weight of her grief. She seized the hand of the Vaikomtesa in both of her own. The Baron pardoned him, she cried. Tell me what his Excellency said. Why are you keeping it from me? Hush, my dear, said the Vaikomtesa. Yes, he pardoned him. Mr. Temple was to have come to the city tonight with an officer. Mr. Ritchie and I came to this house together, and we found— Yes, yes, said Antoinette. Mr. Ritchie wrote to Mr. Temple that his Excellency was to send for him tonight, but Andre told him of the fever, and he came here in the face of danger, to see her before she died. He galloped past the sentry at the gate, and the Alcalde followed him from there, and came here to arrest him, cried Antoinette. Before the Vaikomtesa could permit her, she sprang from her chair, ran to the door, and was peering out into the darkness. Is the Alcalde waiting? No, no, said the Vaikomtesa, gently bringing her back. I wrote to his Excellency, and we have his permission for Mr. Temple to remain here. Suddenly Antoinette stopped in the middle of the floor, facing the candle, her hands clasped, her eyes wide with fear. We started, Helene and I, as we looked at her. What is it, my dear? said the Vaikomtesa, laying a hand on her arm. He will take it, she said. He will take the fever. A strange thing happened. Many, many times have I thought of it since, and I did not know its meaning then. I had looked to see the Vaikomtesa comfort her, but Helene took a step towards me. My eyes met hers, and in them reflected was the terror I had seen in Antoinette's. At that instant I too forgot the girl, and we turned to see that she had sunk down, weeping, in the chair. Then we both went to her. I, through some instinct, I did not fathom. Helene's hand, resting on Antoinette's shoulder, trembled there. It may well have been my own weakness which made me think her body swayed, which made me reach out as if to catch her. However marvelous her strength and fortitude, these could not last forever. And, heaven help me, my own were fast failing. Once the room had seemed to me all in darkness, then I saw the Vaikomtesa leaning tenderly over her cousin, and whispering in her ear, and Antoinette rising, clinging to her. I will go, she faltered. I will go. He must not know I have been here. You will not tell him? No, I shall not tell him, answered the Vaikomtesa. And you will send word to me, Helene? Yes, dear. Antoinette kissed her and began to adjust her veil mechanically. I looked on bewildered by the workings of the feminine mind. Why was she going? The Vaikomtesa gave me no hint. But suddenly the girl's arms fell to her sides, and she stood staring, not so much as a cry escaping her. The bedroom doors had been opened, and between them was the tall figure of Nicholas Temple. So they met again after many years, and she who had parted them had brought them together once more. He came a step into the room, as though her eyes had drawn him so far. Even then he did not speak her name. Go, he said. Go, you must not stay here. Go! She bowed her head. I am going, she answered. I am going. But you must go at once, he cried excitedly. Do you know what is in there? And he pointed towards the bedroom. Yes, yes, I know, she said. I know. Then go, he cried. As it is, you've risked too much. She lifted up her head and looked at him. There was a newborn note in her voice, a tremulous note of joy in the midst of sorrow. It was of her he was thinking. And you, she said, you have come and remained. She's my mother, he answered. God knows it was the least I could have done. Twice she had changed before our eyes, and now we beheld a new and yet more startling transformation. When she spoke there was no reproach in her voice, but triumph. Antoinette undid her veil. Yes, she is your mother, she answered. But for many years she has been my friend. I will go to her, she cannot forbid me now. Aline has been with her, she said, turning to where the Vicum Tessa stood watching her intently. Aline has been with her, and shall I, who have longed to see her these many years, leave her now? But you were going, he cried, beside himself with apprehension at this new turning. You told me that you were going. Truly man is born without perception. Yes, I told you that, she replied almost defiantly. And why were you going, he demanded. Then I had a sudden desire to shake him. Antoinette was mute. You yourself must find the answer to that question, Mr. Temple, said the Vicum Tessa quietly. He turned and stared at Aline, and she seemed to smile. Then as his eyes went back irresistibly to the other, a light that was wonderful to see dawned and grew in them. I shall never forget him as he stood, handsome and fearless, a gentleman still, despite his years of wandering and adventure, and in this supreme moment, unselfish. The willful, masterful boy had become a man at last. He started forward, stopped, trembling with a shock of remembrance, and gave back again. You cannot come, he said. I cannot let you take this risk. Tell her she cannot come, madame, he said to Aline, for the love of God sent her home again. But there were forces which even Aline could not stem. He had turned to go back. He had seized the door, but Antoinette was before him. Custom does not weigh at such a time. Had she not read his avowal, she had his hand in hers, heedless of us who watched. At first he sought to free himself, but she clung to it with all the strength of her love. Yet she did not look up at him. I will come with you, she said, in a low voice. I will come with you, Nick. How quaintly she spoke his name, and gently, and timidly, I and with a supreme courage, true to him through all those nom years of waiting, this was a little thing, that they should face death together, a little thing, and yet the greatest joy that God can bestow upon a good woman. He looked down at her with a great tenderness, he spoke her name, and I knew that he had taken her at last into his arms. Come, he said. They went in together, and the doors closed behind them. Antoinette's maid was on the step, and the vicomtessa and I were alone once more in the little parlor. I remember well the sense of unreality I had, and how it troubled me. I remember how what I had seen and heard was turning, turning in my mind. Nick had come back to Antoinette. They were together in that room, and Mrs. Temple was dying. Dying? No, it could not be so. Again I was in the garden at Lay Hills on a night that was all perfume, and I saw the flowers all ghostly white under the moon. And then suddenly I was watching the green candle sputter, and out of the stillness came a cry, the sereno calling the hour of the night. How my head throbbed. It was keeping time to some rhythm I knew not what. Yet it was the song my father used to sing. I fought on land, I fought at sea, at home I fought my auntie old. But New Orleans was hot, burning hot, and this could not be cold, I felt. Ah, I had it, the water was cold going to Vincennes, so cold. A voice called me. No matter where I had gone, I think I would have come back at the sound of it. I listened intently that I might lose no word of what it said. I knew the voice. Had it not called to me many times in my life before? But now there was fear in it, and fear gave it a vibrant sweetness. Fear gave it a quality that made it mine. Mine. You are shivering, that was all it said. And it called from across the sea, and the sea was cold, cold and green under the gray light. If she who called to me would only come with the warmth of her love. The sea faded, the light fell, and I was in the eternal cold of space between the whirling whirls. If she could but find me, was not that her hand in mine? Did I not feel her near me, touching me? I wondered that I should hear myself as I answered her. I'm not ill, I said. Speak to me again. She was pressing my hand now. I saw her bending over me. I felt her hair as it brushed my face. She spoke again. There was a tremor in her voice. Into that alone I listened. The words were decisive of command, and with them some sense as if a haven near came to me. Another voice answered in a strange tongue, saying seemingly, Oui madame, mail qui, bon jee, mail qui. I heard the doors close and the sound of footsteps running and dying along the vanquette, and after that my shoulders were raised and something wrapped about them. Then stillness again, the stillness that comes between waking and sleeping, between pain and calm. And at times when I felt her hand fall into mine or press against my brow, the pain seemed more endureable. After that I recall being lifted, being born along. I opened my eyes once and saw above a tile crowned wall, the moon all yellow and distorted in the sky. Then a gate clicked, dungeon blackness, half light again, a scent, oblivion. End of chapter 11. Book 3, chapter 12 of The Crossing by Winston Churchill. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12, Visions and an Awakening. I have still sharp memories of the torches of that illness, though it befell so long ago. At times when my mind was gone from me, I cried out if I know not what of jargon, of sentiment, of the horrors I had beheld in my life. I lived again the pleasant scenes, warped in burlesque almost beyond cognizance, and the tragedies were magnified a hundredfold. Thus it would be. On the low white ceiling five cracks came together, and that was a device. And the device would take on color, red bronze like the sumac in the autumn, and streaks of vermilion, and two glowing coals that were eyes, and above them eagle's feathers, and the cracks became bramble bushes. I was behind the log, and at times I started and knew that it was a hideous dream, and again Polly Ann was clutching me, and praying me to hold back. And I broke from her, and splashed over the slippery limestone bed of the creek to fight single-handed. Through all the fearful struggle I heard her calling me piteously to come back to her. When the brood got me under water I could not hear her, but her voice came back suddenly as when a door opens, and it was like the wind singing in the poplars. Was it Polly Ann's voice? Again I sat with Nick under the trees on the lawn at Temple Bow, and the world was dark with the coming storm. I knew, and he knew, that the storm was brewing that I might be thrust out into it. And then in the blackness, when the air was filled with all the fair things of the earth torn asunder, a beautiful woman came through the noise and the fury, and we ran to her and clung to her skirts, thinking we had found safety, but she thrust us forth into the blackness with a smile, as though she were flinging papers out of the window. She too grew out of the design in the cracks of the ceiling, and a greater fear seized me at sight of her features than when the red face came out of the brambles. My constant torment was thirst. I was in the prairie, and it was scorched and brown to the horizon. I searched and prayed pitifully for water, for only a sip of the brown water with the specks in it that was in the swamp. There were no swamps. I was on the bed in the cabin looking at the shifts and hunting shirts on the pegs, and Polly Ann would bring a gourdful of clear water from the spring as far as the door. Nay, once I got it to my lips, and it was gone. Sometimes a young man and a hunting shirt, square-shouldered, clear-eyed, his face tanned and his fair hair, breached by the sun, would bring the water. He was the hero of my boyhood, and part of him indeed was in me. And I would have followed him again to Vincennes despite the torches of the dammed, but when I spoke his name he grew stouter before me, and his eyes lost their luster, and his hair turned gray. And his hand shook as he held out the gourd and spilled its contents ere I could reach them. Sometimes another brought the water, and at sight of her I would tremble and grow faint, and I had not the strength to reach for it. She would look at me with eyes that laughed despite the resolution of the mouth. Then the eyes would grow pitiful at my helplessness, and she would murmur my name. There was some reason which I never feathered why she could not give me the water, and her own suffering seemed greater than mine because of it. So great did it seem that I forgot my own and sought to comfort her. Then she would go away very slowly, and I would hear her calling me in the wind from the stars to which I looked up from the prairie. It was she, I thought, who ordered the world, who when women were lost and men cried out in distress, came to them calmly, ministered to them deftly. Once, perhaps a score of times, I cannot tell, was lined on the ceiling where the cracks were, her miniature, and I knew what was coming and shuddered and cried aloud because I could not stop it. I saw the narrow street of a strange city deep down between high houses, houses with gratings on the lowest windows, with studded, evil-looking doors, with upper stories that toppled over to shut out the light of the sky, with slated roofs that slanted and twisted this way and that and dormers peeping from them. Down in the street, instead of the king's white soldiers was a foul, unkempt rabble, creeping out of its damp places, gesting, cursing, singing, and in the midst of the rabble, a lady sat in a cart high above it, unmoved. She was the lady of the miniature. A window in one of the jutting houses was flung open and a little man leaned out excitedly and I knew him too. He was Jean Baptiste Lenore and he cried out in a shrill voice, you must take off her rough, citizens, you must take off her rough. There came a blessed day when my thirst was gone, when I looked up at the cracks in the ceiling and wondered why they did not change into horrors. I watched them a long, long time and it seemed incredible that they should still remain cracks. Beyond that I would not go into speculation I dared not venture. They remained cracks and I went to sleep thanking God. When I awoke a breeze came in, cool, fitful gusts, and on it the scent of camellias, I thought of turning my head and I remember wondering for a long time over the expediency of this move. What would happen if I did? Perhaps the visions would come back, perhaps my head would come off. Finally I decided to risk it and the first thing that I beheld was a palm leaf fan moving slowly. That fact gave me food for thought and contented me for a while. Then I head upon the idea that there must be something behind the fan. I was distinctly pleased by this astuteness and I spent more time in speculation. Whatever it was, it had a tantalizing elusiveness, keeping the fan between it and me. This was not fair. I had an inspiration. If I feigned to be asleep, perhaps the thing behind the fan would come out. I shut my eyes. The breeze continued steadily. Surely no human being could fan as long as that without being tired. I opened my eyes twice, but the thing was inscrutable. Then I heard a sound that I knew to be a footstep upon boards. A voice whispered. The delirium has left him. Another voice, a man's voice, answered. Thank God. Let me fan him. You're tired. I'm not tired," answered the first voice. I do not see how you've stood it, said the man's voice. You will kill yourself, Madame La Vie Comteza. The danger is past now. I hope so, Mr. Temple, said the first voice. Please go away. You may come back in half an hour. I heard the footsteps retreating. Then I said, I'm not asleep. The fan stopped for a brief instant and then went on vibrating inexgrably. I was entranced at the thought of what I had done. I had spoken, though indeed it seemed to have no effect. Could it be that I hadn't spoken? I began to be frightened at this when gradually something crept into my mind and drove the fear out. I did not grasp what this was at first. It was like the first staining of wine on the eastern sky to one who sees a sunrise. And then the thought grew even as the light grows, tinged by prismatic colors, until at length a memory struck into my soul like a shaft of light. I spoke her name, unblushingly, aloud. Haleen! The fan stopped. There was a silence that seemed an eternity as the palm leaf trembled in her hand. There was an answer that strove tenderly to command. Hush! You must not talk, she said. Never, I believe, came such supreme happiness with obedience. I felt her hand upon my brow and the fan moved again. I fell asleep once more from sheer weariness of joy. She was there beside me. She had been there beside me, through it all, and it was her touch which had brought me back to life. I dreamed of her. When I awoke her image was in my mind, and I let it rest there in contemplation. But presently I thought of the fan, turned my head, and it was not there. A great fear seized me. I looked out of the open door for the morning sun through the checkered shadows of the honeysuckle on the floor of the gallery and over the railing to the treetops in the courtyard. The place struck a chord in my memory. Then my eyes wandered back into the room. There was a polished dresser, a crucifix, and a pre-do in the corner, a photo and another chair in my bed. The floor was rubbed to an immaculate cleanliness, stained yellow, and on it lay clean woven mats. The room was empty. I cried out, a yellow and red turban shot across the window, and I beheld in the door the spare countenance of the faithful Lindy. Marstave, she cried, is you feeling well, honey? Where am I, Lindy, I asked. Lindy, like many of her race, knew well how to assume heirs of importance. Lindy had me down, and she knew it. Marstave, she said, don't you know better than that, you know she ain't to talk. Lossy, I reckon I wouldn't be worth pison if she was to hear I let you talk. Lindy implied that there was a tyranny somewhere. She, I asked, who's she? Now you hush, Marstave, said Lindy, and a shrill whisper. I ain't a guine to get mixed up in no disputation. If she was to hear me a disputin' with you, Marstave, I reckon I'd done get such a tongue lashing. Lindy looked at me suspiciously. You always was powerful, cute, Marstave. Lindy set her lips with a mighty resolve to be silenced. I heard someone coming along the gallery, and then I saw Nick's tall figure looming up behind her. Davey, he cried. Lindy braced herself up doggedly. You ain't a guine to get in there, no how, Marstave. She said. Nonsense, Lindy, he answered. I've been in there as much as you have, and he took hold of her thin arm and pulled her back. Marstave, she cried, terror-stricken. She'll don't figure out that you've been a-talkin'. Fish, said Nick, with a fine air. Who's afraid of her? Lindy's face took on an expression of intense amusement. You is, for one Marstave, she answered with a familiarity of an old servant. I don't see it, you skedaddle, when she calmed. Tut, said Nick grandly. I run from no woman, hey, Davey. He pushed past the protesting Lindy into the room and took my hand. You gad, you've been near the devil's precipice, my son. A three-bottle man would have gone over. In his eyes was all the strange affection he had had for me ever since we had been boys at Temple Bow together. Davey, I reckon life wouldn't have been worth much if you had gone. I did not answer. I could only stare at him, mutely grateful for such an affection. In all his wild life he had been true to me, and he had clung to me staunchly in this, my greatest peril. Thankful that he was here I searched his handsome person with my eyes. He was dressed, as usual, with care and fashion and linen breeches and a light gray coat and a filmy ruffle at his neck. But I thought there had come a change into his face. The reckless quality seemed to have gone out of it. But the spirit and daring remained, and with these all the sweetness that was once in his smile. There were lines under his eyes that spoke of vigils. You've been sitting up with me, I said. Of course, he answered, patting my shoulder. Of course I have. What did you think I would be doing? What was the matter with me, I asked. Nothing much, he said lightly. A touch of the sun and a great deal of overwork on behalf of your friends. Now keep still, or I will be getting peppered. I was silent for a while, turning over this answer in my mind. Then I said, I had yellow fever. He started. It's no use to lie to you, he replied. You're too shrewd. I was silent again for a while. Nick, I said, you have no right to stay here. You have other responsibilities now. He laughed. I was the old boyant, boyish laugh of sheer happiness, and I felt the better for hearing it. If you begin to preach, parson, I'll go. I vow I'll have no more sermonizing, Davy, he cried. Isn't she the most dearest, sweetest, most beautiful person in the world? I smiled. Where is she, I answered, temporizing. Nick was not a subtle person, and I was ready to follow him at great length in the praise of Antoinette. I hope she's not here. We made her go to Laëlle, said he, and you risked your life and stayed here without her, I said. As for risking life, that kind of criticism doesn't come well from you, and as for Antoinette, he added with a smile. I expect to see something of her later on. Well, I answered with a sigh of supreme content. You've been a fool all your life, and I hope that she will make you sensible. You never could make me so, said Nick, and besides I don't think you've been so damn sensible yourself. We were silent again for a space. Davy, he asked, do you remember what I said when you had that many at your here? You said a great many things, I believe. I told you to consider carefully the masterful features of that lady, and to thank God you hadn't married her. I vow I never thought she'd turn up. Upon my oath I never thought I should be a blind slave as I have been for the last fortnight. Faith must sure disungry as a strong man, but it was no more than a puppet in his own house when he came back here for a day. That lady could govern a province. No, a kingdom. But I warrant you there would be no climbing of balconies in her dominions. I've never been so generaled in my life. I had no answer for these comments. The deuce of it is the way she does it, he continued, plainly bent on relieving himself. There's no noise, no fuss, but you must obey. You don't know why. And yet you may flay me if I don't love her. Love her, I repeated. She saved your life, said Nick. I don't believe any other woman could have done it. She hadn't any thought of her own. She's been here, in this room, almost constantly night and day, and she never let you go. The little French doctor gave you up, not she. She held on. Cursed if I see why she did it. Nor I, I answered. Well, he said apologetically, of course I would have done it, but you weren't anything to her. Yes, he gad, you were something to be saved. That was all that was necessary. She had you brought back here. We are in Montchure de Saint-Grie's house, by the way, in a litter, and she took command as though she had nursed yellow fever cases all her life. No flurry. I said that you were in love with her once, Davy, when I saw you looking at the portrait. I take it back. Of course a man could be very fond of her, he said, but a king ought to have married her. As for that poor vicomp she's tied up to, I reckon I know the reason why he didn't come to America. An ordinary man would have no chance at all. God bless her, he cried, with a sudden burst of feeling. I would die for her myself. She got me out of a barrel of trouble with his excellency. She cared for my mother, a lonely outcast, and braved death herself to go to her when she was dying of the fever. God bless her. Lindy was standing in the doorway. Land sakes, Mars Nick, you've got to go, she said. He rose and pressed my fingers. I'll go, he said, and left me. Lindy seated herself in the chair. She held in her hand a bowl of beef broth. From this she fed me in silence, and when she left she commanded me to sleep informing me that she would be on the gallery within call. But I did not sleep at once. Nick's words had brought back a fact which my returning consciousness had hitherto ignored. The birds sing in the courtyard, and when the breeze stirred it was ever laden with a new scent. I had been snatched from the jaws of death, my life was before me, but the happiness which had thrilled me was gone, and in my weakness the weight of the sadness which had come upon me was almost unbearable. If I had had the strength I would have risen then and there from my bed. I would have fled from the city at the first opportunity. As it was I lay in a torture of thought, living over again every part of my life which she had touched. I remembered the first long yearning look I had given the miniature at Madame Beauvets. I had not loved her then. My feeling rather had been a mysterious sympathy with the admiration for this brilliant lady whose fear was so far removed from mine. This was sufficiently strange. Then in the years of my struggle for livelihood which followed I dreamed of her. I pictured her often in the midst of the darkness of the revolution. Then I had the miniature again which had traveled to her as it were and come back to me. Even then it was not love I felt, but an unnamed sentiment for one whom I clothed with gifts and attributes I admired, constancy, an ability to suffer and to hide, decision, wit, refuge for the weak, scorn for the faults. So I named them at random and cherished them, knowing that these things were not what other men longed for in women. Nay, there was another quality which I believed was there, which I knew was there, a supreme tenderness that was hidden like a treasure too sacred to be seen. I did not seek to explain the mystery which had brought her across the sea into that little garden of Mrs. Temple's and into my heart. There she was now enthroned, deified, that she would always be there I accepted, that I would never say or do anything not in consonance with her standards I knew, that I would suffer much, I was sure, but the leaves of that suffering I should hoard because they came from her. That might have been, I tried to put away. There was the moment, I thought, when our souls had met in the little parlor in the Rue Bourbon. I should never know. This I knew, that we had labored together to bring happiness into other lives. Then came another thought to appall me. Unmindful of her own safety, she had nursed me back to life through all the horrors of the fever. The doctor had despaired and I knew by the very force that was in her she had saved me. She was here now, in this house, and presently she would be coming back to my bedside. Painfully I turned my face to the wall in a torment of humiliation. I had called her by her name. I would see her again, but I knew not whence the strength for that ordeal was to come. CHAPTER XIII I knew by the light that it was evening when I awoke, so prisoners marked the passing of the days by a bar of sunlight, and as I looked at the green trees in the courtyard vaguely troubled by I knew not what, someone came and stood in the doorway. It was Nick. "'You don't seem very cheerful,' said he. "'A man ought to be, who has been snatched out of the fire. You seem to be rather too sure of my future,' I said, trying to smile. "'That's more like you,' said Nick. "'You get, you ought to be happy. We all ought to be happy. She's gone.' She?' I cried. "'Who's gone?' "'Madame la Vicumtessa,' he replied, rubbing his hands as he stood over me. "'But she's left instructions with me for Lindy as long as Moschur de Coron de Léz, Bando de Buen Gobierno. You're not to do this, you're not to do that, you're to eat such and such things, you're to be made to sleep at such and such times.' She came in here about an hour ago and took a long look at you before she left. "'She was not ill,' I said faintly. "'Faith, I don't know why she was not,' he said. She's done enough to tire out an army. But she seems well and fairly happy. She had her joke at my expense as she went through the courtyard, and she reminded me that we were to send a report by André every day. Chagrin, depression, relief, bewilderment—all were struggling within me. "'Where did she go?' I asked at last. "'To Léz,' he said, "'you were to be brought there as soon as you're strong enough. "'Do you happen to know why she went?' I said. "'Now how the doos should I know?' he answered. "'I've done everything with blind civility since I came into this house. I never asked for any reason. It never would have done any good. I suppose she thought she were well on the road to recovery, and she knew that Lindy was an old hen, and then the doctors to come in. Why didn't you go?' I demanded with a sudden remembrance that he was staying away from happiness. It was because I longed for another taste of liberty, Davy, he laughed. "'You and I will have an old-fashioned time here together—a deal of talk and perhaps a little piquette? Who knows?' My strength came back bit by bit, and listening to his happiness did much to ease the soreness of my heart, while the light lasted. It was in the night watches that my struggles came, though often some unwitting speech of his would bring back the pain. He took delight in telling me, for example, how for hours at a time I had been in a fearful delirium. "'The Lord knows what foolishness you talk, Davy,' said he. "'It would have done me good to hear you had you been in your bright mind. But you did hear me,' I said, full of apprehensions. "'Some of it,' said he. "'You were after Wilkinson once in a burrow, I believe, and you swore dreadfully because he got out the other end. I can't remember all the things you said. "'Oh, yes, once you were talking to Auguste de Sainte-Grie about money.' "'Money?' I repeated in a sinking voice. "'Oh, a lot of jargon. The Vicumtessa pushed me out of the room, and after that I was never allowed to be there when you had those flights. "'Curse the mosquitoes!' he seized a fan and began to ply it vigorously. "'I remember you were giving Auguste a lecture. Then I had to go. These and other remembrances gave me sufficient food for reflection, and many a shudder over the possibilities of my ravings. She had put him out. No wonder!' After a while I was carried to the gallery, and there I would talk to the little doctor about the yellow fever which had swept the city. Auguste de Sainte-Grie was not much of a doctor, to be sure, and he had a heartier dread of the American invasion than of the scourge. He worshipped the Vicumtessa and was so devoid of professional pride as to give her freely all credit for my recovery. He, too, clothed her with the qualities of statesmanship. "'I'm not sure,' he said. "'If that lady had been king of France, do you think there would have been any states general, any red bonnets, any Jacobins, or Caudeliers? Parbleau, she would have swept the vice-mongers and traders out of the palace royal itself. There would have been a house cleaning there. I who speak to you know it!' Every day Nick wrote a bulletin to be sent to the Vicumtessa, and he took a fiendish delight in the composition of these. He would come out on the gallery with ink and a blank sheet of paper, and try to enlist my help. He would insert the most ridiculous statements, as for instance, "'David is worse today, having bribed Lindy to give him a pint of Madeira against my orders,' or, "'David feigns to be sinking rapidly because he wishes to have you back. Indeed, I was always in a torture of doubt to know what the rascal had sent.' His company was most agreeable when he was recounting the many adventures he had had during the five years after he had left New Orleans and been lost to me. These would fill a book, and the most readable book it would be if written in his own speech. His love for the excitement of the frontier had finally drawn him back to the Cumberland country near Nashville, and he had actually gone so far as to raise a house and tell some of the land which he had won from Darnley. It was perhaps characteristic of him that he had named the place Rattle and Snap, in honor of the game which had put him in possession of it, and Rattle and Snap it remains to this day. He was going back there with Antoinette, so he said, to build a brick mansion and to live a respectable life the rest of his days. There was one question which had been in my mind to ask him concerning the attitude of Moschour de Songrie. That gentleman, with Madame, had hurried back from Pointe-Coupay at a message from the Vicumtessa, and had gone first to Laëls to see Antoinette. Then he had come, in spite of the fever, to his own house in New Orleans to see Nick himself. What their talk had been I never knew, for the subject was too painful to be dwelt upon, and the conversation had been marked by frankness on both sides. Moschour de Songrie was a just man, his love for his daughter was his chief passion, and despite all that had happened he liked Nick. I believe he could not wholly blame the younger man, and he forgave him. Mrs. Temple, poor lady, had died on that first night of my illness, and it was her punishment that she had not known her son, or her son's happiness. Whatever sins she had committed in her wayward life were atoned for, and by her death I firmly believe that she redeemed him. She lies now among the temples in Charleston, and on the stone which marks her grave is cut no line that hints of the story of these pages. One bright morning when Nick and I were playing cards we heard someone mounting the stairs, and, to my surprise and embarrassment, I beheld Moschour de Songrie emerging on the gallery. He was in white linen and wore broad hat, which he took from his head as he advanced. He had aged somewhat, his hair was a little gray, but otherwise he was the firm, dignified personage I had admired on this gallery five years before. Good morning, gentlemen, he said in English. Ah, do not rise, sir, to me. He patted Nick's shoulder kindly, but not familiarly as he passed him, and extended his hand. Mr. Richie, it gives me more pleasure than I can express to see you so much recovered. I'm again thrown on your hospitality, sir, I said, flushing with pleasure at this friendliness, for I admired and respected the man greatly, and I fear I've been a burden and trouble to you and your family. He took my hand and pressed it. Characteristically he did not answer this, and I remember he was always careful not to say anything which might smack of insincerity. I had a glimpse of you some weeks ago, he said, thus making light of the risk he had run. You are a different man now. You may thank your scotch-blood and your strong constitution. His good habits have done him some good after all, put in my irrepressible cousin. Monsieur de Sangre smiled. Nick, he said. He pronounced the name quaintly, like Antoinette. His good habits have turned out to be some advantage to you, Mr. Richie. You have a faithful friend, at least. He patted Nick's shoulder again, and he has promised me to settle down. I have every inducement, sir, said Nick. Monsieur de Sangre became grave. You have indeed, monsieur, he answered. I have just come from Dr. Perens, David, he added. May I call you so? Well, then, I have just come from Dr. Perens, and he says you may be moved to L'Else this very afternoon. Why, upon my word, he exclaimed, staring at me. You don't look pleased. One would think you were going to the Calaboso. Ah! said Nick, slyly. I know. He has tasted freedom, monsieur, and Madame Lavicomtesa will be in command again. I flushed. Nick could be very exasperating. You must not mind him, monsieur, I said. I do not mind him, answered Monsieur de Sangre, laughing in spite of himself. He is a sad rogue. As for Helene, I shall not know how to thank the Vicomtesa, I said. She has done me the greatest service one person can do another. Helene is a good woman, answered Monsieur de Sangre, simply. She is more than that. She is a wonderful woman. I remember telling you of her once. I little thought then that she would ever come to us, he turned to me. Dr. Perens will be here this afternoon, David, and he will have you dressed. Between five and six, if all goes well, we shall start fully L's. And in the meantime, gentlemen, he added with the stateliness that was natural to him. I have business which takes me today to my brother-in-law's, Monsieur des Beaux-Égeurs. Nick leaned over the gallery and watched meditatively his prospective father-in-law leaving the courtyard. He got me out of a devilish bad scrape, he said. How was that? I asked listlessly. That fat little baron, the governor, was for deporting me for running past the sentry and giving him all the trouble I did. It seems that the Vicum Tessa promised to explain matters in a note which she wrote and never did explain. She was here with you and lot she cared about anything else. Lucky them on sure to songree came back. Now, His Excellency, graciously allows me to stay here, if I behave myself, until I get married. I do not know how I spent the rest of the day. It passed somehow. If I had had the strength, then I believe I should have fled. I was to see her again, to feel her near me, to hear her voice. During the weeks that had gone by I had schooled myself, in a sense, to the inevitable. I had not let my mind dwell upon my visit to Les Elves, and now I was face to face with the struggle for which I felt I had not the strength. I had fought one battle, I knew that a fiercer battle was to come. In due time the doctor arrived, and while he prepared me for my departure the little man sought, with misplaced kindness, to raise my spirits. Was not mature going to the country, to a paradise? M'aus sure, so Dr. Perrin had noticed, had a turn for philosophy. Could two more able and brilliant conversationalists be found in Philippe de Songree and Madame la Vicum Tessa? When there was the happiness of that strange but lovable young man, M'aus sure, temple, to contemplate. He was in luck, sable gargoyle, for he was getting an angel for his wife. Did M'aus sure know that Namazel Antoinette was an angel? At last I was ready, arrayed in my best, on the gallery when M'aus sure de Songree came. André and another servant carried me down into the court, and there stood a painted sedan chair with de Songree's arms on the panels. My father imported it, David, said M'aus sure de Songree. It has not been used for many years. You are to be carried in it to the levy, and there I have a boat for you. Overwhelmed by this kindness I could not find the words to thank him as I got into the chair. My legs were too long for it, I remember. I had a quaint feeling of unreality as I sank back on the red satin cushions, and was born out of the gate between the lions. M'aus sure de Songree and Nick walked in front, the faithful Lindy followed, and people paused to stare at us as we passed. We crossed the plus-darms, the royal road, gained the willow-bordered promenade on the levy's crown, and a wide barge was waiting, manned by six negro oarsmen. They lifted me into its stern, unto the awning, the barge was cast off, the oars dipped, and we were gliding silently past the line of keel-boats on the swift current of the Mississippi. The spars of the shipping were icky-black, and the setting sun had struck a red band across the waters. For a while the three of us set gazing at the green shore, each wrapped in his own reflections. Nick de Songree thinking, perchance of the wavered sun he had lost, Nick of the woman who awaited him, an eye of one whom fate had set beyond me. It was M'aus sure de Songree who broke the silence at last. "'You feel no ill effects from your moving, David?' he asked, with an anxious glance at me. "'None, sir,' I said, "'the country air will do you good,' he said kindly, and Madame Lavique-Mtessa will put him on a diet, added Nick, rousing himself. "'Eline will take care of him,' answered M'aus sure de Songree. He fell to musing again. "'Madame Lavique-Mtessa has seen more in seven years that most of us in a lifetime,' he said. "'She has beheld the glory of France and the dishonor and pollution of her country. And the old order lasted her salon would have been famous, and she would have been a power in politics. "'I have thought that the Vaikom-tessa must have had a queer marriage,' Nick remarked. M'aus sure de Songree smiled. "'Such marriages were the rule amongst our nobility,' he said. It was arranged while Haleen was still in the convent, though it was not celebrated until three years after she had been in the world. There was a romantic affair, I believe, with a young gentleman of the English Embassy, though I do not know the details. He is said to be the only man she ever cared for. He was a younger son of an impoverished Earl. I started remembering what the Vaikom-tessa had said, but M'aus sure de Songree did not appear to see my perturbation. Be that as it may. If Haleen suffered she never gave a sign of it. The marriage was celebrated with great pomp, and there were all can only conjecture of what she thought of the Vaikom-tessa. It was deemed to be both sides a brilliant match. He had inherited vast estates, Ivory Latour, Mont-Marie, Les Célandes—I know not what else. She was heiress to the château de Songree with its wide lands, to the château and the lands of the Côte Rouge in Normandy, to the hotel de Songree in Paris. M'aus sure, if I comp'd, was between forty and fifty at his marriage, and from what I have heard of him, he had many of the virtues and many of the faults of his order. He was a bachelor, which does not mean that he lacked consolations. He was reserved with his equals and distant with others. He had served in the guards and did not lack courage. He dressed exquisitely, was inclined to the pollinac party, took his ease everywhere, had the knowledge of cards and courts, and little else. He was cheated by his stewards, refused to believe that the revolution was serious, and would undoubtedly have been guillotine had the Vaikom-tessa not contrived to get him out of France in spite of himself. They went first to the Duke de Ligne, at Belle Eau, and thence to Coblence. He accepted a commission in the Austrian service, which is much to his credit, and Haleen went with some friends to England. There my letter reached her, and rather than be beholden to strangers or accept my money there, she came to us. That is her story in brief-mospheres. As for M'aus sure, it comp'd, he admired his wife, as well he might, respected her for the way she served the gallants, but he made no pretense of loving her. Unaffair, a girl in the village of Mont-Marie, had lasted. Haleen was destined for higher things than may be found in Louisiana, said M'aus sure de sangri, turning to Nick. But now that you are to carry away my treasure, M'aus sure, I do not know what I should have done without her. And has there been any news of the Vaikom-t of late? It was Nick who asked the question after a little. M'aus sure de sangri looked at him in surprise. Eh, Maudure, have you not heard? He said. Zevre, you have been with David. Did not the Vaikom-t assessment in it? But why should she? M'aus sure, if a comp'd died in Vienna. He had lived too well. The Vaikom-t is dead, I said. They both looked at me. Indeed, I should not have recognized my own voice. What my face betrayed, what my feelings were, I cannot say. My heart beat no faster, there was no tumult in my brain, and yet my breath caught strangely. Something grew within me which is beyond the measure of speech. And so it was meant to be. I did not know this myself until Haleen returned to lay else, M'aus sure de sangri was saying to me. The letter came to her the day after you were taken ill. It was from the Baron von Sackenbroek at whose house the Vaikom-t died. She took it very calmly, but Haleen is not a woman to pretend. How much better, after all, if she had married her Englishman for love? And she is much troubled now because as she declares she is dependent upon my bounty. That is my happiness, my consolation, the good man added simply, and her father, the Marquis, was kind to me when I was a young provincial and a stranger. God rest his soul! We were drawing near to lay else, the rains had come during my illness, and in the level evening light the forest of the shore was the tender green of spring. At length we saw the white wooden steps in the levee at the landing, and near them were three figures waiting. We glided nearer. One was Madame de Sangre, another was Antoinette, these I saw indeed. The other was Haleen, and it seemed to me that her eyes met mine across the waters and drew them. Then we were at the landing. I heard Madame de Sangre's voice, and Antoinette's in welcome. I listened for another. I saw Nick running up the steps. In the impetuosity of his love he had seized Antoinette's hand in his, and she was the color of a red rose. Creole decorum forbade further advances. André and another lifted me out, and they gathered around me, these kind people and devoted friends. Antoinette calling me with exquisite shyness by name. Madame de Sangre giving me a grave but gentle welcome, and asking anxiously how I stood the journey. Another took my hand, held it for the briefest space that had been marked out of time, and for that instant I looked into her eyes. Life flowed back into me, and strength and a joy not to be fathomed. I could have walked. But they bore me through the well-remembered vista, and the white gallery at the end of it was like the sight of home. The evening air was laden with the scent of the sweetest of all shrubs and flowers. End of chapter 13