Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters with the Rights of Man.  What had become, they asked, of the expedition of Citizen General Clark preparing in the North?  They may have sighed secretly when I painted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these planters.  Strangely enough, the name of Auguste de St. Gre never crossed their lips, and I got no trace of him or Nick at any of these places.  Was it possible that they might not have come to New Orleans after all?

Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning with a tropical fierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned himself to his siestas, I thought.  It was perhaps characteristic of me that I waited nearly three weeks to confide in my old friend the purpose of my journey to New Orleans.  It was not because I could not trust him that I held my tongue, but because I sought some way of separating the more intimate story of Nick’s mother and his affair with Antoinette de St. Gre from the rest of the story.  But Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, and I reflected that a time might come when I should need his help.  One evening, when we were tied up under the oaks of a bayou, I told him.  There emanated from Monsieur Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and this I felt strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long intervals to ask a question.  It was a still night, I remember, of great beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over the forest line, the air heavy with odors and vibrant with a thousand insect tones.

“And what you do, Davy?” he said at length.

“I must find my cousin and St. Gre before they have a chance to get into much mischief,” I answered.  “If they have already made a noise, I thought of going to the Baron de Carondelet and telling him what I know of the expedition.  He will understand what St. Gre is, and I will explain that Mr. Temple’s reckless love of adventure is at the bottom of his share in the matter.”

“Bon, Davy,” said my host, “if you go, I go with you.  But I believe ze Baron think Morro good place for them jus’ the sem.  Ze Baron has been make miserable with Jacobins.  But I go with you if you go.”

He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the St. Gre’s, their public services, and before he went to sleep he made the very just remark that there was a flaw in every string of beads.  As for me, I went down into the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from my pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely come into my possession once more.  The face upon it had haunted me since I had first beheld it.  The miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which Polly Ann had bought for me in Lexington.  Shall I confess it?—­I had carefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at the back, and the picture lacked now only the gold setting.  As for the face, I had a kind of consolation from it.  I seemed to draw of its strength when I was tired, of its courage when I faltered.  And, during those four days of indecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words that I could not evade or forget, “Go to New Orleans.”  It was a sentiment—­foolish, if you please—­which could not resist.  Nay, which I did not try to resist, for I had little enough of it in my life.  What did it matter?  I should never see Madame la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour.