“I remember,” I said.

“It is because I have much confidence in you, Monsieur,” he said, “it is because I go—­peut-etre—­to dangere, to death, that I come here and ask you to do me a favor.”

“You honor me too much, Monsieur,” I answered, though I could scarce refrain from smiling.

“It is because of your charactair,” Monsieur Auguste was good enough to say.  “You are to be repose’ in, you are to be rely on.  Sometime I think you ver’ ole man.  And this is why, and sence you laik objects of art, that I bring this and ask you keep it while I am in dangere.”

I was mystified.  He thrust his hand into his coat and drew forth an oval object wrapped in dirty paper, and then disclosed to my astonished eyes the miniature of Mademoiselle de St. Gre,—­the miniature, I say, for the gold back and setting were lacking.  Auguste had retained only the ivory,—­whether from sentiment or necessity I will not venture.  The sight of it gave me a strange sensation, and I can scarcely write of the anger and disgust which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it from his trembling fingers.  Suddenly I forgot Auguste in the lady herself.  There was something emblematical in the misfortune which had bereft the picture of its setting.  Even so the Revolution had taken from her a brilliant life, a king and queen, home and friends.  Yet the spirit remained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings,—­ay, and untouched by them.  I was filled with a painful curiosity to know what had become of her, which I repressed.  Auguste’s voice aroused me.

“Ah, Monsieur, is it not a face to love, to adore?”

“It is a face to obey,” I answered, with some heat, and with more truth than I knew.

“Mon Dieu, Monsieur, it is so.  It is that mek me love—­you know not how.  You know not what love is, Monsieur Reetchie, you never love laik me.  You have not sem risson.  Monsieur,” he continued, leaning forward and putting his hand on my knee, “I think she love me—­I am not sure.  I should not be surprise’.  But Monsieur le Marquis, her father, he trit me ver’ bad.  Monsieur le Marquis is guillotine’ now, I mus’ not spik evil of him, but he marry her to one ol’ garcon, Le Vicomte d’Ivry-le-Tour.”

“So Mademoiselle is married,” I said after a pause.

“Oui, she is Madame la Vicomtesse now; I fall at her feet jus’ the sem.  I hear of her once at Bel Oeil, the chateau of Monsieur le Prince de Ligne in Flander’.  After that they go I know not where.  They are exile’,—­los’ to me.”  He sighed, and held out the miniature to me.  “Monsieur, I esk you favor.  Will you be as kin’ and keep it for me again?”

I have wondered many times since why I did not refuse.  Suffice it to say that I took it.  And Auguste’s face lighted up.

“I am a thousan’ times gret’ful,” he cried; and added, as though with an afterthought, “Monsieur, would you be so kin’ as to borrow me fif’ dollars?”