The Crossing [268]
slept to dream of her, of the Vicomte, her husband, walking in his park or playing cards amidst a brilliant company in a great candle-lit room like the drawing-room at Temple Bow. Doubt grew, and sleep left me. She was free now, indeed, but was she any nearer to me? Hope grew again,--why had she left me in New Orleans? She had received a letter, and if she had cared she would not have remained. But there was a detestable argument to fit that likewise, and in the light of this argument it was most natural that she should return to Les Iles. And who was I, David Ritchie, a lawyer of the little town of Louisville, to aspire to the love of such a creature? Was it likely that Helene, Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour, would think twice of me? The powers of the world were making ready to crush the presumptuous France of the Jacobins, and the France of King and Aristocracy would be restored. Chateaux and lands would be hers again, and she would go back again to that brilliant life among the great to which she was born, for which nature had fitted her. Last of all was the thought of the Englishman whom I resembled. She would go back to him.
Nick was the first in my room the next morning. He had risen early (so he ingenuously informed me) because Antoinette had a habit of getting up with the birds, and as I drank my coffee he was emphatic in his denunciations of the customs of the country.
``It is a wonderful day, Davy,'' he cried; ``you must hurry and get out. Monsieur de St. Gre sends his compliments, and wishes to know if you will pardon his absence this morning. He is going to escort Antoinette and me over to see some of my prospective cousins, the Bertrands.'' He made a face, and bent nearer to my ear. ``I swear to you I have not had one moment alone with her. We have been for a walk, but Madame la Vicomtesse must needs intrude herself upon us. Egad, I told her plainly what I thought of her tyranny.''
``And what did she say?'' I asked, trying to smile.
``She laughed, and said that I belonged to a young nation which had done much harm in the world to everybody but themselves. Faith, if I wasn't in love with Antoinette, I believe I'd be in love with her.''
``I have no doubt of it,'' I answered.
``The Vicomtesse is as handsome as a queen this morning,'' he continued, paying no heed to this remark. ``She has on a linen dress that puzzles me. It was made to walk among the trees and flowers, it is as simple as you please; and yet it has a distinction that makes you stare.''
``You seem to have stared,'' I answered. ``Since when did you take such interest in gowns?''
``Bless you, it was Antoinette. I never should have known, said he. ``Antoinette had never before seen the gown, and she asked the Vicomtesse where she got the pattern. The Vicomtesse said that the gown had been made by Leonard, a court dressmaker, and it was of the fashion the Queen had set to wear in the gardens of the Trianon when simplicity became the craze. Antoinette is to have it copied, so she says.''
Which proved that Antoinette was human, after all, and happy once more.
``Hang it,'' said Nick, ``she paid more attention to that gown than to me. Good-by, Davy. Obey the--the Colonel.''
``Is--is not the Vicomtesse going with you?'' I asked
``No, I'm sorry for you,'' he called back from the gallery.
He had need to be, for I fell into as great a fright as ever I had had in my life. Monsieur de St. Gre knocked at the door and startled me out of my wits. Hearing that I was awake, he had come in person to make his excuses for leaving me that morning.
``Bon Dieu!'' he said, looking at me, ``the country has done you good already. Behold a marvel! Au revoir, David.''
I heard the horses being brought around, and laughter and voices. How easily I distinguished hers! Then I heard the hoof-beats on the soft dirt of the drive. Then silence,--the silence of a summer morning which is all myriad sweet sounds. Then Lindy appeared, starched and turbaned.
``Marse Dave, how you feel dis mawnin'? Yo' 'pears mighty
Nick was the first in my room the next morning. He had risen early (so he ingenuously informed me) because Antoinette had a habit of getting up with the birds, and as I drank my coffee he was emphatic in his denunciations of the customs of the country.
``It is a wonderful day, Davy,'' he cried; ``you must hurry and get out. Monsieur de St. Gre sends his compliments, and wishes to know if you will pardon his absence this morning. He is going to escort Antoinette and me over to see some of my prospective cousins, the Bertrands.'' He made a face, and bent nearer to my ear. ``I swear to you I have not had one moment alone with her. We have been for a walk, but Madame la Vicomtesse must needs intrude herself upon us. Egad, I told her plainly what I thought of her tyranny.''
``And what did she say?'' I asked, trying to smile.
``She laughed, and said that I belonged to a young nation which had done much harm in the world to everybody but themselves. Faith, if I wasn't in love with Antoinette, I believe I'd be in love with her.''
``I have no doubt of it,'' I answered.
``The Vicomtesse is as handsome as a queen this morning,'' he continued, paying no heed to this remark. ``She has on a linen dress that puzzles me. It was made to walk among the trees and flowers, it is as simple as you please; and yet it has a distinction that makes you stare.''
``You seem to have stared,'' I answered. ``Since when did you take such interest in gowns?''
``Bless you, it was Antoinette. I never should have known, said he. ``Antoinette had never before seen the gown, and she asked the Vicomtesse where she got the pattern. The Vicomtesse said that the gown had been made by Leonard, a court dressmaker, and it was of the fashion the Queen had set to wear in the gardens of the Trianon when simplicity became the craze. Antoinette is to have it copied, so she says.''
Which proved that Antoinette was human, after all, and happy once more.
``Hang it,'' said Nick, ``she paid more attention to that gown than to me. Good-by, Davy. Obey the--the Colonel.''
``Is--is not the Vicomtesse going with you?'' I asked
``No, I'm sorry for you,'' he called back from the gallery.
He had need to be, for I fell into as great a fright as ever I had had in my life. Monsieur de St. Gre knocked at the door and startled me out of my wits. Hearing that I was awake, he had come in person to make his excuses for leaving me that morning.
``Bon Dieu!'' he said, looking at me, ``the country has done you good already. Behold a marvel! Au revoir, David.''
I heard the horses being brought around, and laughter and voices. How easily I distinguished hers! Then I heard the hoof-beats on the soft dirt of the drive. Then silence,--the silence of a summer morning which is all myriad sweet sounds. Then Lindy appeared, starched and turbaned.
``Marse Dave, how you feel dis mawnin'? Yo' 'pears mighty