“You should see it, Monsieur, and I think you also would fall in love with it.”

“I have not a doubt of it,” said Nick.

Mademoiselle made the faintest of moues.

“Auguste is very wild, as you say,” she continued, addressing me, “he is a great care to my father.  He intrigues, you know, he wishes Louisiane to become French once more,—­as we all do.  But I should not say this, Monsieur,” she added in a startled tone.  “You will not tell?  No, I know you will not.  We do not like the Spaniards.  They killed my grandfather when they came to take the province.  And once, the Governor-general Miro sent for my father and declared he would put Auguste in prison if he did not behave himself.  But I have forgotten the miniature.  When Auguste saw that he fell in love with it, and now he wishes to go to France and obtain a commission through our cousin, the Marquis of Saint-Gre, and marry Mademoiselle Helene.”

“A comprehensive programme, indeed,” said Nick.

“My father has gone back to New Orleans,” she said, “to get the miniature from Auguste.  He took it from me, Monsieur.”  She raised her head a little proudly.  “If my brother had asked it, I might have given it to him, though I treasured it.  But Auguste is so—­impulsive.  My uncle told my father, who is very angry.  He will punish Auguste severely, and—­I do not like to have him punished.  Oh, I wish I had the miniature.”

“Your wish is granted, Mademoiselle,” I answered, drawing the case from my pocket and handing it to her.

She took it, staring at me with eyes wide with wonder, and then she opened it mechanically.

“Monsieur,” she said with great dignity, “do you mind telling me where you obtained this?”

“I found it, Mademoiselle,” I answered; and as I spoke I felt Nick’s fingers on my arm.

“You found it?  Where?  How, Monsieur?”

“At Madame Bouvet’s, the house where we stayed.”

“Oh,” she said with a sigh of relief, “he must have dropped it.  It is there where he meets his associates, where they talk of the French Louisiane.”

Again I felt Nick pinching me, and I gave a sigh of relief.  Mademoiselle was about to continue, but I interrupted her.

“How long will your father be in New Orleans, Mademoiselle?” I asked.

“Until he finds Auguste,” she answered.  “It may be days, but he will stay, for he is very angry.  But will you not come into the house, Messieurs, and be presented to my mother?” she asked.  “I have been very—­inhospitable,” she added with a glance at Nick.

We followed her through winding paths bordered by shrubs and flowers, and presently came to a low house surrounded by a wide, cool gallery, and shaded by spreading trees.  Behind it were clustered the kitchens and quarters of the house servants.  Mademoiselle, picking up her dress, ran up the steps ahead of us and turned to the left in the hall into a darkened parlor.  The floor was bare, save for a few mats, and in the corner was a massive escritoire of mahogany with carved feet, and there were tables and chairs of a like pattern.  It was a room of more distinction than I had seen since I had been in Charlestown, and reflected the solidity of its owners.