The Crossing [161]
want to run off with my wife. She was like Suzanne.''
``How long ago did you come from France, Monsieur?'' I asked, to get away from an uncomfortable subject.
``It is twenty years,'' said he, dreamily, in French. ``I was born in the Quartier Saint Jean, on the harbor of the city of Marseilles near Notre Dame de la Nativite.'' And he told of a tall, uneven house of four stories, with a high pitched roof, and a little barred door and window at the bottom giving out upon the rough cobbles. He spoke of the smell of the sea, of the rollicking sailors who surged through the narrow street to embark on his Majesty's men- of-war, and of the King's white soldiers in ranks of four going to foreign lands. And how he had become a farmer, the tenant of a country family. Excitement grew on him, and he mopped his brow with his blue rumal handkerchief.
``They desire all, the nobles,'' he cried, ``I make the land good, and they seize it. I marry a pretty wife, and Monsieur le Comte he want her. L'bon Dieu,'' he added bitterly, relapsing into French. ``France is for the King and the nobility, Monsieur. The poor have but little chance there. In the country I have seen the peasants eat roots, and in the city the poor devour the refuse from the houses of the rich. It was we who paid for their luxuries, and with mine own eyes I have seen their gilded coaches ride down weak men and women in the streets. But it cannot last. They will murder Louis and burn the great chateaux. I, who speak to you, am of the people, Monsieur, I know it.''
The sun had long set, and with flint and tow they were touching the flame to the candles, which flickered transparent yellow in the deepening twilight. So absorbed had I become in listening to Lenoir's description that I had forgotten Nick. Now I searched for him among the promenading figures, and missed him. In vain did I seek for a glimpse of Suzanne's red ribbons, and I grew less and less attentive to the miller's reminiscences and arraignments of the nobility. Had Nick indeed run away with his daughter?
The dancing went on with unabated zeal, and through the open door in the fainting azure of the sky the summer moon hung above the hills like a great yellow orange. Striving to hide my uneasiness, I made my farewells to Madame Chouteau's sons and daughters and their friends, and with Colonel Chouteau I left the hall and began to walk towards Monsieur Gratiot's, hoping against hope that Nick had gone there to change. But we had scarce reached the road before we could see two figures in the distance, hazily outlined in the mid-light of the departed sun and the coming moon. The first was Monsieur Gratiot himself, the second Benjy. Monsieur Gratiot took me by the hand.
``I regret to inform you, Mr. Ritchie,'' said he, politely, ``that my keel boats are loaded and ready to leave. Were you on any other errand I should implore you to stay with us.''
``Is Temple at your house?'' I asked faintly.
``Why, no,'' said Monsieur Gratiot; ``I thought he was with you at the ball.''
``Where is your master?'' I demanded sternly of Benjy.
``I ain't seed him, Marse Dave, sence I put him inter dem fine clothes 'at he w'ars a-cou'tin'.''
``He has gone off with the girl,'' put in Colonel Chouteau, laughing.
``But where?'' I said, with growing anger at this lack of consideration on Nick's part.
``I'll warrant that Gaspard or Hippolyte Beaujais will know, if they can be found,'' said the Colonel. ``Neither of them willingly lets the girl out of his sight.''
As we hurried back towards the throbbing sounds of Zeron's fiddle I apologized as best I might to Monsieur Gratiot, declaring that if Nick were not found within the half-hour I would leave without him. My host protested that an hour or so would make no difference. We were about to pass through the group of loungers that loitered by the gate when the sound of rapid footsteps arrested us, and we turned to confront two panting and perspiring young men who halted beside us. One was Hippolyte Beaujais, more fantastic than
``How long ago did you come from France, Monsieur?'' I asked, to get away from an uncomfortable subject.
``It is twenty years,'' said he, dreamily, in French. ``I was born in the Quartier Saint Jean, on the harbor of the city of Marseilles near Notre Dame de la Nativite.'' And he told of a tall, uneven house of four stories, with a high pitched roof, and a little barred door and window at the bottom giving out upon the rough cobbles. He spoke of the smell of the sea, of the rollicking sailors who surged through the narrow street to embark on his Majesty's men- of-war, and of the King's white soldiers in ranks of four going to foreign lands. And how he had become a farmer, the tenant of a country family. Excitement grew on him, and he mopped his brow with his blue rumal handkerchief.
``They desire all, the nobles,'' he cried, ``I make the land good, and they seize it. I marry a pretty wife, and Monsieur le Comte he want her. L'bon Dieu,'' he added bitterly, relapsing into French. ``France is for the King and the nobility, Monsieur. The poor have but little chance there. In the country I have seen the peasants eat roots, and in the city the poor devour the refuse from the houses of the rich. It was we who paid for their luxuries, and with mine own eyes I have seen their gilded coaches ride down weak men and women in the streets. But it cannot last. They will murder Louis and burn the great chateaux. I, who speak to you, am of the people, Monsieur, I know it.''
The sun had long set, and with flint and tow they were touching the flame to the candles, which flickered transparent yellow in the deepening twilight. So absorbed had I become in listening to Lenoir's description that I had forgotten Nick. Now I searched for him among the promenading figures, and missed him. In vain did I seek for a glimpse of Suzanne's red ribbons, and I grew less and less attentive to the miller's reminiscences and arraignments of the nobility. Had Nick indeed run away with his daughter?
The dancing went on with unabated zeal, and through the open door in the fainting azure of the sky the summer moon hung above the hills like a great yellow orange. Striving to hide my uneasiness, I made my farewells to Madame Chouteau's sons and daughters and their friends, and with Colonel Chouteau I left the hall and began to walk towards Monsieur Gratiot's, hoping against hope that Nick had gone there to change. But we had scarce reached the road before we could see two figures in the distance, hazily outlined in the mid-light of the departed sun and the coming moon. The first was Monsieur Gratiot himself, the second Benjy. Monsieur Gratiot took me by the hand.
``I regret to inform you, Mr. Ritchie,'' said he, politely, ``that my keel boats are loaded and ready to leave. Were you on any other errand I should implore you to stay with us.''
``Is Temple at your house?'' I asked faintly.
``Why, no,'' said Monsieur Gratiot; ``I thought he was with you at the ball.''
``Where is your master?'' I demanded sternly of Benjy.
``I ain't seed him, Marse Dave, sence I put him inter dem fine clothes 'at he w'ars a-cou'tin'.''
``He has gone off with the girl,'' put in Colonel Chouteau, laughing.
``But where?'' I said, with growing anger at this lack of consideration on Nick's part.
``I'll warrant that Gaspard or Hippolyte Beaujais will know, if they can be found,'' said the Colonel. ``Neither of them willingly lets the girl out of his sight.''
As we hurried back towards the throbbing sounds of Zeron's fiddle I apologized as best I might to Monsieur Gratiot, declaring that if Nick were not found within the half-hour I would leave without him. My host protested that an hour or so would make no difference. We were about to pass through the group of loungers that loitered by the gate when the sound of rapid footsteps arrested us, and we turned to confront two panting and perspiring young men who halted beside us. One was Hippolyte Beaujais, more fantastic than