“Ha, Monsieur,” he said, “if that lady had been King of France, do you think there would have been any States General, any red bonnets, any Jacobins or Cordeliers?  Parbleu, she would have swept the vicemongers and traitors out of the Palais Royal itself.  There would have been a house-cleaning there.  I, who speak to you, know it.”

Every day Nick wrote a bulletin to be sent to the Vicomtesse, and he took a fiendish delight in the composition of these.  He would come out on the gallery with ink and a blank sheet of paper and try to enlist my help.  He would insert the most ridiculous statements, as for instance, “Davy is worse to-day, having bribed Lindy to give him a pint of Madeira against my orders.”  Or, “Davy feigns to be sinking rapidly because he wishes to have you back.”  Indeed, I was always in a torture of doubt to know what the rascal had sent.

His company was most agreeable when he was recounting the many adventures he had had during the five years after he had left New Orleans and been lost to me.  These would fill a book, and a most readable book it would be if written in his own speech.  His love for the excitement of the frontier had finally drawn him back to the Cumberland country near Nashville, and he had actually gone so far as to raise a house and till some of the land which he had won from Darnley.  It was perhaps characteristic of him that he had named the place “Rattle-and-Snap” in honor of the game which had put him in possession of it, and “Rattle-and-Snap” it remains to this day.  He was going back there with Antoinette, so he said, to build a brick mansion and to live a respectable life the rest of his days.

There was one question which had been in my mind to ask him, concerning the attitude of Monsieur de St. Gre.  That gentleman, with Madame, had hurried back from Pointe Coupee at a message from the Vicomtesse, and had gone first to Les Iles to see Antoinette.  Then he had come, in spite of the fever, to his own house in New Orleans to see Nick himself.  What their talk had been I never knew, for the subject was too painful to be dwelt upon, and the conversation had been marked by frankness on both sides.  Monsieur de St. Gre was a just man, his love for his daughter was his chief passion, and despite all that had happened he liked Nick.  I believe he could not wholly blame the younger man, and he forgave him.

Mrs. Temple, poor lady, had died on that first night of my illness, and it was her punishment that she had not known her son or her son’s happiness.  Whatever sins she had committed in her wayward life were atoned for, and by her death I firmly believe that she redeemed him.  She lies now among the Temples in Charleston, and on the stone which marks her grave is cut no line that hints of the story of these pages.

One bright morning, when Nick and I were playing cards, we heard some one mounting the stairs, and to my surprise and embarrassment I beheld Monsieur de St. Gre emerging on the gallery.  He was in white linen and wore a broad hat, which he took from his head as he advanced.  He had aged somewhat, his hair was a little gray, but otherwise he was the firm, dignified personage I had admired on this same gallery five years before.