“I am with Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville.”

“Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville,” she repeated.  “I shall remember.  A demain, Monsieur.”  She courtesied and went swiftly into Mrs. Temple’s room.  Seizing my hat, I opened the door and found myself in the dark street.

CHAPTER VII

THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE

I had met Helene de St. Gre at last.  And what a fool she must think me!  As I hurried along the dark banquettes this thought filled my brain for a time to the exclusion of all others, so strongly is vanity ingrained in us.  After all, what did it matter what she thought,—­Madame la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour?  I had never shone, and it was rather late to begin.  But I possessed, at least, average common sense, and I had given no proof even of this.

I wandered on, not heeding the command which she had given me,—­to go home.  The scent of camellias and magnolias floated on the heavy air of the night from the court-yards, reminding me of her.  Laughter and soft voices came from the galleries.  Despite the Terror, despite the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, despite the Rights of Man and the wars and suffering arising therefrom, despite the scourge which might come to-morrow, life went gayly on.  The cabarets echoed, and behind the tight blinds lines of light showed where the Creole gentry gamed at their tables, perchance in the very clubs Madame la Vicomtesse had mentioned.

The moon, in her first quarter, floated in a haze.  Washed by her light, the quaintly wrought balconies and heavy-tiled roofs of the Spanish buildings, risen from the charred embers, took on a touch of romance.  I paused once with a twinge of remembrance before the long line of the Ursuline convent, with its latticed belfry against the sky.  There was the lodge, with its iron gates shut, and the wall which Nick had threatened to climb.  As I passed the great square of the new barracks, a sereno (so the night watchmen were called) was crying the hour.  I came to the rambling market-stalls, casting black shadows on the river road,—­empty now, to be filled in the morning with shouting marchands.  The promenade under the willows was deserted, the great river stretched away under the moon towards the forest line of the farther shore, filmy and indistinct.  A black wisp of smoke rose from the gunwale of a flatboat, and I stopped to listen to the weird song of a negro, which I have heard many times since.

Caroline.

In, de, tois, Ca-ro-line, Qui ci ca ye, comme ca ma chere?  In, de tois, Ca-ro-line, Quo fair t’-apes cri—­e ma chere?  Mo l’-aime toe con-ne ca, C’est to m’ou—­le, c’est to mo prend, Mo l’-aime toe, to con-ne ca—­a c’est to m’oule c’est to mo prend.

Gaining the promenade, I came presently to the new hotel which had been built for the Governor, with its balconied windows looking across the river—­the mansion of Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet.  Even as I sat on the bench in the shadow of the willows, watching the sentry who paced before the arched entrance, I caught sight of a man stealing along the banquette on the other side of the road.  Twice he paused to look behind him, and when he reached the corner of the street he stopped for some time to survey the Governor’s house opposite.