“Betray!” I exclaimed; “there is no question of betrayal.  As far as I can see, your plans are carried on openly, with a fine contempt for the Federal government.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“’Tis not my doin’,” he said, “but I am—­what you call it?—­a cipher.  Sicrecy is what I believe.  But drink too much, talk too much—­is it not so, Monsieur?  And if Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor, hear they are in New Orleans, I think they go to Havana or Brazil.”  He smiled, but perhaps the expression of my face caused him to sober abruptly.  “It is necessair for the cause.  We must have good Revolution in Louisiane.”

A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike simplicity characterized the other ringleaders in this expedition.  Clark had had acumen once, and lost it; St. Gre was a fool; Nick Temple was leading purposely a reckless life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to say the least, a limited knowledge of affairs.  All of these were responding more or less sincerely to the cry of the people of Kentucky (every day more passionate) that something be done about Louisiana.  But Gignoux seemed of a different feather.  Moreover, he had been too shrewd to deny what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer moment,—­that St. Gre and Nick had gone to New Orleans.

“You not spik, Monsieur.  You not think they have success.  You are not Federalist, no, for I hear you march las night with your frien’,—­I hear you wave torch.”

“You make it your business to hear a great deal, Monsieur Gignoux,” I retorted, my temper slipping a little.

He hastened to apologize.

“Mille pardons, Monsieur,” he said; “I see you are Federalist—­but drunk.  Is it not so?  Monsieur, you tink this ver’ silly thing—­this expedition.”

“Whatever I think, Monsieur,” I answered, “I am a friend of General Clark’s.”

“An enemy of ze cause?” he put in.

“Monsieur,” I said, “if President Washington and General Wayne do not think it worth while to interfere with your plans, neither do I.”

I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed affairs with a heavy heart.  The more I thought, the more criminally foolish Nick’s journey seemed to me.  However puerile the undertaking, De Lemos at Natchez and Carondelet at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleeping at their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known.  I sought General Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks, and in my anxiety I lay awake at nights tossing in my bed.

One evening, perhaps four days after Nick’s departure, I went into the common room of the tavern, and there I was surprised to see an old friend.  His square, saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyes snapped as brightly as ever, his hair—­which was swept high above his forehead and tied in an eelskin behind—­was as black as when I had seen it at Kaskaskia.  I had met Monsieur Vigo many times since, for he was a familiar figure amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and from Vincennes to Anse a la Graisse, and even to New Orleans.  His reputation as a financier was greater than ever.  He was talking to my friend, Mr. Marshall, but he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.