“I saw dat light,” said a voice which I recognized; “I think I come in to say good night.”

I opened the door, and he walked in.

“You are one night owl, Monsieur Reetchie,” he said.

“And you seem to prefer the small hours for your visits, Monsieur de St. Gre,” I could not refrain from replying.

He swept the room with a glance, and I thought a shade of disappointment passed over his face.  I wondered whether he were looking for Nick.  He sat himself down in my chair, stretched out his legs, and regarded me with something less than his usual complacency.

“I have much laik for you, Monsieur Reetchie,” he began, and waved aside my bow of acknowledgment “Before I go away from Louisville I want to spik with you,—­this is a risson why I am here.  You listen to what dat Depeau he say,—­dat is not truth.  My family knows you, I laik to have you hear de truth.”

He paused, and while I wondered what revelations he was about to make, I could not repress my impatience at the preamble.

“You are my frien’, you have prove it,” he continued.  “You remember las’ time we meet?” (I smiled involuntarily.) “You was in bed, but you not need be ashame’ for me.  Two days after I went to France, and I not in New Orleans since.”

“Two days after you saw me?” I repeated.

“Yaas, I run away.  That was the mont’ of August, 1789, and we have not then heard in New Orleans that the Bastille is attack.  I lan’ at La Havre,—­it is the en’ of Septembre.  I go to the Chateau de St. Gre—­great iron gates, long avenue of poplar,—­big house all ’round a court, and Monsieur le Marquis is at Versailles.  I borrow three louis from the concierge, and I go to Versailles to the hotel of Monsieur le Marquis.  There is all dat trouble what you read about going on, and Monsieur le Marquis he not so glad to see me for dat risson.  ’Mon cher Auguste,’ he cry, ’you want to be of officier in gardes de corps?  You are not afred?’” (Auguste stiffened.) “’I am a St. Gre, Monsieur le Marquis.  I am afred of nothings,’ I answered.  He tek me to the King, I am made lieutenant, the mob come and the King and Queen are carry off to Paris.  The King is prisoner, Monsieur le Marquis goes back to the Chateau de St. Gre.  France is a republic.  Monsieur—­que voulez-vous?” (The Sieur de St. Gre shrugged his shoulders.) “I, too, become Republican.  I become officier in the National Guard,—­one must move with the time.  Is it not so, Monsieur?  I deman’ of you if you ever expec’ to see a St. Gre a Republican.”

I expressed my astonishment.

“I give up my right, my principle, my family.  I come to America—­I go to New Orleans where I have influence and I stir up revolution for France, for Liberty.  Is it not noble cause?”

I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask Monsieur Auguste why he left France, but the uselessness of it was apparent.

“You see, Monsieur, I am justify before you, before my frien’s,—­that is all I care,” and he gave another shrug in defiance of the world at large.  “What I have done, I have done for principle.  If I remain Royalist, I might have marry my cousin, Mademoiselle de St. Gre.  Ha, Monsieur, you remember—­the miniature you were so kin’ as to borrow me four hundred livres?”