“Sapristi!” exclaimed the young man, but he laughed.  The young women stood up, giggling, and peered at Nick over the young man’s shoulder.  One of them wore a fresh red-and-white calamanco gown.  She had a complexion of ivory tinged with red, raven hair, and dusky, long-lashed, mischievous eyes brimming with merriment.

“Volontiers, Monsieur,” she answered, before the others could catch their breath, “premiere droite et premiere gauche.  Allons, Gaspard!” she cried, tapping the young man sharply on the shoulder, “es tu fou?”

Gaspard came to himself, flicked the pony, and they went off down the road with shouts of laughter, while Nick stood waving his hat until they turned the corner.

“Egad,” said he, “I’d take to the highway if I could be sure of holding up such a cargo every time.  Off with you, Benjy, and find out where she lives,” he cried, and the obedient Benjy dropped the saddle-bags as though such commands were not uncommon.

“Pick up those bags, Benjy,” said I, laughing.

Benjy glanced uncertainly at his master.

“Do as I tell you, you black scalawag,” said Nick, “or I’ll tan you.  What are you waiting for?”

“Marse Dave—­” began Benjy, rolling his eyes in discomfiture.

“Look you, Nick Temple,” said I, “when you shipped with me you promised that I should command.  I can’t afford to have the town about our ears.”

“Oh, very well, if you put it that way,” said Nick.  “A little honest diversion—­Pick up the bags, Benjy, and follow the parson.”

Obeying Mademoiselle’s directions, we trudged on until we came to a comfortable stone house surrounded by trees and set in a half-block bordered by a seven-foot paling.  Hardly had we opened the gate when a tall gentleman of grave demeanor and sober dress rose from his seat on the porch, and I recognized my friend of Cahokia days, Monsieur Gratiot.  He was a little more portly, his hair was dressed now in an eelskin, and he looked every inch the man of affairs that he was.  He greeted us kindly and bade us come up on the porch, where he read my letter of introduction.

“Why,” he exclaimed immediately, giving me a cordial grasp of the hand, “of course.  The strategist, the John Law, the reader of character of Colonel Clark’s army.  Yes, and worse, the prophet, Mr. Ritchie.”

“And why worse, sir?” I asked.

“You predicted that Congress would never repay me for the little loan I advanced to your Colonel.”

“It was not such a little loan, Monsieur,” I said.

“N’importe,” said he; “I went to Richmond with my box of scrip and promissory notes, but I was not ill repaid.  If I did not get my money, I acquired, at least, a host of distinguished acquaintances.  But, Mr. Ritchie, you must introduce me to your friend.”

“My cousin.  Mr. Nicholas Temple,” I said.

Monsieur Gratiot looked at him fixedly.

“Of the Charlestown Temples?” he asked, and a sudden vague fear seized me.