Had I not been so occupied with my own fate in the outcome of this inquisition, I should have been sorry for Auguste.And yet this feeling could not have lasted, for the young gentleman sprang to his feet, cast a glance at me which was not without malignance, and faced his father, his lips twitching with anger and fear.Monsieur de St.Gre sat undisturbed.
``He is so much in love with the portrait, Monsieur, that he loses it.''
``Loses it!'' cried Auguste.
``Precisely,'' said his father, dryly, ``for Mr.Ritchie tells me he found it--at Madame Bouvet's, was it not, Monsieur?''
Auguste looked at me.
``Mille diables!'' he said, and sat down again heavily.
``Mr.Ritchie has returned it to your sister, a service which puts him heavily in our debt,'' said Monsieur de St.Gre.``Now, sir,'' he added to me, rising, ``you have had a tiresome day.I will show you to your room, and in the morning we will begin our--investigations.''
He clapped his hands, the silent mulatto appeared with a new candle, and I followed my host down the gallery to a room which he flung open at the far end.A great four-poster bedstead was in one corner, and a polished mahogany dresser in the other.
``We have saved some of our family furniture from the fire, Mr.Ritchie,'' said Monsieur de St.Gre; ``that bed was brought from Paris by my father forty years ago.
I hope you will rest well.''
He set the candle on the table, and as he bowed there was a trace of an enigmatical smile about his mouth.How much he knew of Auguste's transaction I could not fathom, but the matter and the scarcely creditab]e part I had played in it kept me awake far into the night.Iwas just falling into a troubled sleep when a footstep on the gallery startled me back to consciousness.It was followed by a light tap on the door.
``Monsieur Reetchie,'' said a voice.
It was Monsieur Auguste.He was not an imposing figure in his nightrail, and by the light of the carefully shaded candle he held in his hand I saw that he had hitherto deceived me in the matter of his calves.He stood peering at me as I lay under the mosquito bar.
``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, Ihave done one extraordinaire foolish thing when I am come to this house to-night.''
And he disappeared, shading his candle, as he had come.
