The Crossing [192]
commanded?'' she said. They were speaking in the familiar French.
``Ha, diable! is it that which disquiets thee?'' said her father. ``We will not speak of Auguste. Dost thou know Monsieur Ritchie, 'Toinette?''
She disengaged herself and dropped me a courtesy, her eyes seeking the ground. But she said not a word. At that instant Madame de St. Gre herself appeared on the gallery, followed by Nick, who came down the steps with a careless self-confidence to greet the master. Indeed, a stranger might have thought that Mr. Temple was the host, and I saw Antoinette watching him furtively with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.
``I am delighted to see you at last, Monsieur,'' said my cousin. ``I am Nicholas Temple, and I have been your guest for three days.''
Had Monsieur de St. Gre been other than the soul of hospitality, it would have been impossible not to welcome such a guest. Our host had, in common with his daughter, a sense of humor. There was a quizzical expression on his fine face as he replied, with the barest glance at Mademoiselle Antoinette:--
``I trust you have been--well entertained, Mr. Temple. My daughter has been accustomed only to the society of her brother and cousins.''
``Faith, I should not have supposed it,'' said Nick, instantly, a remark which caused the color to flush deeply into Mademoiselle's face. I looked to see Monsieur de St. Gre angry. He tried, indeed, to be grave, but smiled irresistibly as he mounted the steps to greet his wife, who stood demurely awaiting his caress. And in this interval Mademoiselle shot at Nick a swift and withering look as she passed him. He returned a grimace.
``Messieurs,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, turning to us, ``dinner will soon be ready--if you will be so good as to pardon me until then.''
Nick followed Mademoiselle with his eyes until she had disappeared beyond the hall. She did not so much as turn. Then he took me by the arm and led me to a bench under a magnolia a little distance away, where he seated himself, and looked up at me despairingly.
``Behold,'' said he, ``what was once your friend and cousin, your counsellor, sage, and guardian. Behold the clay which conducted you hither, with the heart neatly but painfully extracted. Look upon a woman's work, Davy, and shun the sex. I tell you it is better to go blindfold through life, to have--pardon me--your own blunt features, than to be reduced to such a pitiable state. Was ever such a refinement of cruelty practised before? Never! Was there ever such beauty, such archness, such coquetry,--such damned elusiveness? Never! If there is a cargo going up the river, let me be salted and lie at the bottom of it. I'll warrant you I'll not come to life.''
``You appear to have suffered somewhat,'' I said, forgetting for the moment in my laughter the thing that weighed upon my mind.
``Suffered!'' he cried; ``I have been tossed high in the azure that I might sink the farther into the depths. I have been put in a grave, the earth stamped down, resurrected, and flung into the dust-heap. I have been taken up to the gate of heaven and dropped a hundred and fifty years through darkness. Since I have seen you I have been the round of all the bright places and all the bottomless pits in the firmament.''
``It seems to have made you literary,'' I remarked judicially.
``I burn up twenty times a day,'' he continued, with a wave of the hand to express the completeness of the process; ``there is nothing left. I see her, I speak to her, and I burn up.''
``Have you had many tete-a-tetes?'' I asked.
``Not one,'' he retorted fiercely; ``do you think there is any sense in the damnable French custom? I am an honorable man, and, besides, I am not equipped for an elopement. No priest in Louisiana would marry us. I see her at dinner, at supper. Sometimes we sew on the gallery,'' he went on, ``but I give you my oath that I have not had one word with her alone.''
``An oath is not necessary,'' I said. ``But you seem to have made some progress nevertheless.''
``Do you
``Ha, diable! is it that which disquiets thee?'' said her father. ``We will not speak of Auguste. Dost thou know Monsieur Ritchie, 'Toinette?''
She disengaged herself and dropped me a courtesy, her eyes seeking the ground. But she said not a word. At that instant Madame de St. Gre herself appeared on the gallery, followed by Nick, who came down the steps with a careless self-confidence to greet the master. Indeed, a stranger might have thought that Mr. Temple was the host, and I saw Antoinette watching him furtively with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.
``I am delighted to see you at last, Monsieur,'' said my cousin. ``I am Nicholas Temple, and I have been your guest for three days.''
Had Monsieur de St. Gre been other than the soul of hospitality, it would have been impossible not to welcome such a guest. Our host had, in common with his daughter, a sense of humor. There was a quizzical expression on his fine face as he replied, with the barest glance at Mademoiselle Antoinette:--
``I trust you have been--well entertained, Mr. Temple. My daughter has been accustomed only to the society of her brother and cousins.''
``Faith, I should not have supposed it,'' said Nick, instantly, a remark which caused the color to flush deeply into Mademoiselle's face. I looked to see Monsieur de St. Gre angry. He tried, indeed, to be grave, but smiled irresistibly as he mounted the steps to greet his wife, who stood demurely awaiting his caress. And in this interval Mademoiselle shot at Nick a swift and withering look as she passed him. He returned a grimace.
``Messieurs,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, turning to us, ``dinner will soon be ready--if you will be so good as to pardon me until then.''
Nick followed Mademoiselle with his eyes until she had disappeared beyond the hall. She did not so much as turn. Then he took me by the arm and led me to a bench under a magnolia a little distance away, where he seated himself, and looked up at me despairingly.
``Behold,'' said he, ``what was once your friend and cousin, your counsellor, sage, and guardian. Behold the clay which conducted you hither, with the heart neatly but painfully extracted. Look upon a woman's work, Davy, and shun the sex. I tell you it is better to go blindfold through life, to have--pardon me--your own blunt features, than to be reduced to such a pitiable state. Was ever such a refinement of cruelty practised before? Never! Was there ever such beauty, such archness, such coquetry,--such damned elusiveness? Never! If there is a cargo going up the river, let me be salted and lie at the bottom of it. I'll warrant you I'll not come to life.''
``You appear to have suffered somewhat,'' I said, forgetting for the moment in my laughter the thing that weighed upon my mind.
``Suffered!'' he cried; ``I have been tossed high in the azure that I might sink the farther into the depths. I have been put in a grave, the earth stamped down, resurrected, and flung into the dust-heap. I have been taken up to the gate of heaven and dropped a hundred and fifty years through darkness. Since I have seen you I have been the round of all the bright places and all the bottomless pits in the firmament.''
``It seems to have made you literary,'' I remarked judicially.
``I burn up twenty times a day,'' he continued, with a wave of the hand to express the completeness of the process; ``there is nothing left. I see her, I speak to her, and I burn up.''
``Have you had many tete-a-tetes?'' I asked.
``Not one,'' he retorted fiercely; ``do you think there is any sense in the damnable French custom? I am an honorable man, and, besides, I am not equipped for an elopement. No priest in Louisiana would marry us. I see her at dinner, at supper. Sometimes we sew on the gallery,'' he went on, ``but I give you my oath that I have not had one word with her alone.''
``An oath is not necessary,'' I said. ``But you seem to have made some progress nevertheless.''
``Do you