“How is it I can thank you, Monsieur!” he exclaimed in a whisper.

“By saying nothing, Monsieur,” I answered.

“You are noble, you are generous, and—­and one day I will give you the money back,” he added with a burst of magniloquence.  “You have behave very well, Monsieur, and I mek you my friend.  Behol’ Auguste de St. Gre, entirely at your service, Monsieur.”  He made a sweeping bow that might have been impressive save for the nightrail, and sought my hand, which he grasped in a fold of the mosquito bar.

“I am overcome, Monsieur,” I said.

“Monsieur Reetchie, you are my friend, my intimate” (he put an aspirate on the word).  “I go to tell you one leetle secret.  I find that I can repose confidence in you.  My father does not understan’ me, you saw, Monsieur, he does not appreciate—­that is the Engleesh.  Mon Dieu, you saw it this night.  I, who spik to you, am made for a courtier, a noble.  I have the gift.  La Louisiane—­she is not so big enough for me.”  He lowered his voice still further, and bent nearer to me.  “Monsieur, I run away to France.  My cousin the Marquis will help me.  You will hear of Auguste de St. Gre at Versailles, at Trianon, at Chantilly, and peut-etre—­”

“It is a worthy campaign, Monsieur,” I interrupted.

A distant sound broke the stillness, and Auguste was near to dropping the candle on me.

“Adieu, Monsieur,” he whispered; “milles tonneres, I have done one extraordinaire foolish thing when I am come to this house to-night.”

And he disappeared, shading his candle, as he had come.

CHAPTER XIV

RETRIBUTION

During the next two days I had more evidence of Monsieur de St. Gre’s ability, and, thanks to his conduct of my campaign, not the least suspicion of my mission to New Orleans got abroad.  Certain gentlemen were asked to dine, we called on others, and met still others casually in their haunts of business or pleasure.  I was troubled because of the inconvenience and discomfort to which my host put himself, for New Orleans in the dog-days may be likened in climate to the under side of the lid of a steam kettle.  But at length, on the second evening, after we had supped on jambalaya and rice cakes and other dainties, and the last guest had gone, my host turned to me.

“The rest of the burrow is the same, Mr. Ritchie, until it comes to the light again.”

“And the fox has crawled out of the other end,” I said.

“Precisely,” he answered, laughing; “in short, if you were to remain in New Orleans until New Year’s, you would not learn a whit more.  To-morrow morning I have a little business of my own to transact, and we shall get to Les Iles in time for dinner.  No, don’t thank me,” he protested; “there’s a certain rough honesty and earnestness ingrained in you which I like.  And besides,” he added, smiling, “you are poor indeed at thanking, Mr. Ritchie.  You could never do it gracefully.  But if ever I were in trouble, I believe that I might safely call on you.”