“Nay,” he said finally, “Spain might as well try to dam the Mississippi as to dam your commerce on it.  As for France, I love her, though my people were exiled to Switzerland by the Edict of Nantes.  But France is rotten through the prodigality of her kings and nobles, and she cannot hold Louisiana.  The kingdom is sunk in debt.”  He cleared his throat.  “As for this Wilkinson of whom you speak, I know something of him.  I have no doubt that Miro pensions him, but I know Miro likewise, and you will obtain no proof of that.  You will, however, discover in New Orleans many things of interest to your government and to the Federal party in Kentucky.  Colonel Chouteau and I will give you letters to certain French gentlemen in New Orleans who can be trusted.  There is Saint-Gre, for instance, who puts a French Louisiana into his prayers.  He has never forgiven O’Reilly and his Spaniards for the murder of his father in sixty-nine.  Saint-Gre is a good fellow,—­a cousin of the present Marquis in France,—­and his ancestors held many positions of trust in the colony under the French regime.  He entertains lavishly at Les Iles, his plantation on the Mississippi.  He has the gossip of New Orleans at his tongue’s tip, and you will be suspected of nothing save a desire to amuse yourselves if you go there.”  He paused interrupted by the laughter of the others.  “When strangers of note or of position drift here and pass on to New Orleans, I always give them letters to Saint-Gre.  He has a charming daughter and a worthless son.”

Monsieur Gratiot produced his tabatiere and took a pinch of snuff.  I summoned my courage for the topic which had trembled all the evening on my lips.

“Some years ago, Monsieur Gratiot, a lady and a gentleman were rescued on the Wilderness Trail in Kentucky.  They left us for St. Louis.  Did they come here?”

Monsieur Gratiot leaned forward quickly.

“They were people of quality?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

“And their name?”

“They—­they did not say.”

“It must have been the Clives,” he cried “it can have been no other.  Tell me—­a woman still beautiful, commanding, of perhaps eight and thirty?  A woman who had a sorrow?—­a great sorrow, though we have never learned it.  And Mr. Clive, a man of fashion, ill content too, and pining for the life of a capital?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly, my voice sinking near to a whisper, “yes—­it is they.  And are they here?”

Monsieur Gratiot took another pinch of snuff.  It seemed an age before he answered:—­

“It is curious that you should mention them, for I gave them letters to New Orleans,—­amongst others, to Saint-Gre.  Mrs. Clive was—­what shall I say?—­haunted.  Monsieur Clive talked of nothing but Paris, where they had lived once.  And at last she gave in.  They have gone there.”

“To Paris?” I said, taking breath.

“Yes.  It is more than a year ago,” he continued, seeming not to notice my emotion; “they went by way of New Orleans, in one of Chouteau’s boats.  Mrs. Clive seemed a woman with a great sorrow.”