第147章 RETRIBUTION(2)

And while they were awaiting the sailing of the packet for France they came to our house--the old one in the Rue Bourbon that was burned.I would not speak ill of the dead, but Mr.Clive I did not like.He fell sick of the fever in my house, and it was there that Antoinette and Madame de St.Gre took turns with his wife in watching at his bedside.I could do nothing with Antoinette, Monsieur, and she would not listen to my entreaties, my prayers, my commands.We buried the poor fellow in the alien ground, for he did not die in the Church, and after that my daughter clung to Mrs.Clive.She would not let her go, and the packet sailed without her.I have never seen such affection.I may say,'' he added quickly, ``that Madame de St.Gre and I share in it, for Mrs.Clive is a lovable woman and a strong character.And into the great sorrow that lies behind her life, we have never probed.''

``And she is with you now, Monsieur?'' I asked.

``She lives with us, Monsieur,'' he answered simply, ``and I hope for always.No,'' he said quickly, ``it is not charity,--she has something of her own.We love her, and she is the best of companions for my daughter.For the rest, Monsieur, she seems benumbed, with no desire to go back or to go farther.''

An entrance drive to the plantation of Les Iles, unknown to Nick and me, led off from the main road like a green tunnel arched out of the forest.My feelings as we entered this may be imagined, for I was suddenly confronted with the situation which I had dreaded since my meeting with Nick at Jonesboro.I could scarcely allow myself even the faint hope that Mrs.Clive might not prove to be Mrs.Temple after all.Whilst I was in this agony of doubt and indecision, the drive suddenly came out on a shaded lawn dotted with flowering bushes.There was the house with its gallery, its curved dormer roof and its belvedere; and a white, girlish figure flitted down the steps.It was Mademoiselle Antoinette, and no sooner had her father dismounted than she threw herself into his arms.Forgetful of my presence, he stood murmuring in her ear like a lover; and as I watched them my trouble slipped from my mind, and gave place to a vaguer regret that I had been a wanderer throughout my life.

Presently she turned up to him a face on which was written something which he could not understand.His own stronger features reflected a vague disquiet.

``What is it, ma cherie?''

What was it indeed? Something was in her eyes which bore a message and presentiment to me.She dropped them, fastening in the lapel of his coat a flaunting red flower set against a shining leaf, and there was a gentle, joyous subterfuge in her answer.

``Thou pardoned Auguste, as I commanded?'' she said.

They were speaking in the familiar French.

``Ha, diable! is it that which disquiets thee?'' said her father.``We will not speak of Auguste.Dost thou know Monsieur Ritchie, 'Toinette?''

She disengaged herself and dropped me a courtesy, her eyes seeking the ground.But she said not a word.At that instant Madame de St.Gre herself appeared on the gallery, followed by Nick, who came down the steps with a careless self-confidence to greet the master.Indeed, a stranger might have thought that Mr.Temple was the host, and I saw Antoinette watching him furtively with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

``I am delighted to see you at last, Monsieur,'' said my cousin.``I am Nicholas Temple, and I have been your guest for three days.''

Had Monsieur de St.Gre been other than the soul of hospitality, it would have been impossible not to welcome such a guest.Our host had, in common with his daughter, a sense of humor.There was a quizzical expression on his fine face as he replied, with the barest glance at Mademoiselle Antoinette:--``I trust you have been--well entertained, Mr.Temple.

My daughter has been accustomed only to the society of her brother and cousins.''

``Faith, I should not have supposed it,'' said Nick, instantly, a remark which caused the color to flush deeply into Mademoiselle's face.I looked to see Monsieur de St.Gre angry.He tried, indeed, to be grave, but smiled irresistibly as he mounted the steps to greet his wife, who stood demurely awaiting his caress.And in this interval Mademoiselle shot at Nick a swift and withering look as she passed him.He returned a grimace.

``Messieurs,'' said Monsieur de St.Gre, turning to us, ``dinner will soon be ready--if you will be so good as to pardon me until then.''

Nick followed Mademoiselle with his eyes until she had disappeared beyond the hall.She did not so much as turn.Then he took me by the arm and led me to a bench under a magnolia a little distance away, where he seated himself, and looked up at me despairingly.

``Behold,'' said he, ``what was once your friend and cousin, your counsellor, sage, and guardian.Behold the clay which conducted you hither, with the heart neatly but painfully extracted.Look upon a woman's work, Davy, and shun the sex.I tell you it is better to go blindfold through life, to have--pardon me--your own blunt features, than to be reduced to such a pitiable state.

Was ever such a refinement of cruelty practised before?

Never! Was there ever such beauty, such archness, such coquetry,--such damned elusiveness? Never! If there is a cargo going up the river, let me be salted and lie at the bottom of it.I'll warrant you I'll not come to life.''

``You appear to have suffered somewhat,'' I said, forgetting for the moment in my laughter the thing that weighed upon my mind.

``Suffered!'' he cried; ``I have been tossed high in the azure that I might sink the farther into the depths.Ihave been put in a grave, the earth stamped down, resurrected, and flung into the dust-heap.I have been taken up to the gate of heaven and dropped a hundred and fifty years through darkness.Since I have seen you I have been the round of all the bright places and all the bottomless pits in the firmament.''

``It seems to have made you literary,'' I remarked judicially.