She had two passengers; a tall, dark, wasted yet handsome man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age, and a woman seemingly some three years younger, of beautiful though severe countenance; “very elegant-looking people and evidently rich,” so the brig-master described them,—­“had much the look of some of the Mississippi River ‘Lower Coast’ aristocracy.”  Their appearance was the more interesting for a look of mental distress evident on the face of each.  Brother and sister they called themselves; but, if so, she was the most severely reserved and distant sister the master of the vessel had ever seen.

They landed, if the account comes down to us right, at Bordeaux.  The captain, a fellow of the peeping sort, found pastime in keeping them in sight after they had passed out of his care ashore.  They went to different hotels!

The vessel was detained some weeks in this harbor, and her master continued to enjoy himself in the way in which he had begun.  He saw his late passengers meet often, in a certain quiet path under the trees of the Quinconce.  Their conversations were low; in the patois they used they could have afforded to speak louder; their faces were always grave and almost always troubled.  The interviews seemed to give neither of them any pleasure.  The monsieur grew thinner than ever, and sadly feeble.

“He wants to charter her,” the seaman concluded, “but she doesn’t like his rates.”

One day, the last that he saw them together, they seemed to be, each in a way different from the other, under a great strain.  He was haggard, woebegone, nervous; she high-strung, resolute,—­with “eyes that shone like lamps,” as said the observer.

“She’s a-sendin’ him ’way to lew-ard,” thought he.  Finally the Monsieur handed her—­or rather placed upon the seat near which she stood, what she would not receive—­a folded and sealed document, seized her hand, kissed it and hurried away.  She sank down upon the seat, weak and pale, and rose to go, leaving the document behind.  The mariner picked it up; it was directed to M.  Honore Grandissime, Nouvelle Orleans, Etats Unis, Amerique.  She turned suddenly, as if remembering, or possibly reconsidering, and received it from him.

“It looked like a last will and testament,” the seaman used to say, in telling the story.

The next morning, being at the water’s edge and seeing a number of persons gathering about something not far away, he sauntered down toward it to see how small a thing was required to draw a crowd of these Frenchmen.  It was the drowned body of the f.m.c.

Did the brig-master never see the woman again?  He always waited for this question to be asked him, in order to state the more impressively that he did.  His brig became a regular Bordeaux packet, and he saw the Madame twice or thrice, apparently living at great ease, but solitary, in the rue—.  He was free to relate that he tried to scrape acquaintance with her, but failed ignominiously.