Story 2, Chapter IX.
The Post-Office.
On my return to New Orleans, one of my earliest solicitudes was about my European correspondence. There letters are not delivered by a carrier, or were not at the time of which I speak. To obtain them, you must either send to the Post-office, or go for them yourself; and expecting some letters of importance, I chose the latter alternative.
I reached the office at the hour when the Atlantic steamer’s mail was being delivered. As is usual at that time, there was a crowd around the delivery-window; but by means of the simple contrivance of a gallery, or coulisse, each applicant was enabled to take his turn. I fell into rank, and awaited mine.
As we moved gradually forward, I could hear the different individuals asking for their letters—each giving his name, or sometimes both name and address.
Rarely was any question asked, beyond the demand for the amount of postage—the applicant paying it through the delivery-window, receiving the letter, and passing on to make room for the impatient gentleman in his rear.
I had arrived within some half-dozen files of the box, when I heard pronounced a well-known name.
“Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche.”
It was not very distinctly enunciated—in fact rather in a sort of muttered tone—but I could not be mistaken as to the name.
There was nothing to surprise me in this. The young lawyer was no doubt there to receive his morning correspondence, like any other man of business. I should not have given a thought to the circumstance, farther than to congratulate myself on the good fortune of having opportunely encountered my friend—since I was just on my way to call upon him, at his office. I say, I should have given no farther thought to the circumstance; but, just as the letter was being delivered, I overheard the words “From Saint Louis,” pronounced by the delivery clerk. No doubt it was some matter relating to the amount of postage; but the phrase had a singular effect on my ears, and at once called up a train of ideas.
“So,” soliloquised I, “Monsieur Luis has received the letter. The mail must have come down by the same boat in which I travelled. Very amusing! I should know the contents of that epistle better than he. Ha! ha! ha! Perhaps the most important letter he ever received in his life! The opening of that envelope will reveal to him a world of happiness. Within, he will find the offer of a hand, a heart, and a fortune. Lucky fellow! he is indeed to be envied!”
I should have felt greatly inclined to have anticipated the post in its office, and to have had the pleasure of imparting the delicious news viva voce, but was restrained by remembering the injunctions of Madame Dardonville. I was curious, however, to observe the effect which the letter from Saint Louis would produce upon my friend; and I leaned over to catch a glimpse of his face. It might not be he who had inquired for the letter—some messenger from the office, perhaps,—and it now occurred to me that it was not his voice I had heard. But I was unable to determine the point. Three or four very stout tall fellows were in front; and, twist myself as I might, I could not see over or around them. “Never mind!” thought I, “I shall follow him directly to his office, and then—”
This reflection was interrupted by observing my friend, as I supposed, emerge from the exit end of the slip, and pass into the street. I thought it was he, and yet I was not quite certain. His back was towards me; but as he walked out of the portico, he turned slightly, and I caught a momentary glimpse of his side face. It was certainly like him; but I was struck with a sudden impression that it was more like the face of Monsieur Despard. This caused me to scrutinise the figure with more eagerness; but some one stepped in front of me, and when I looked again, he was gone out of sight.
“It matters little,” thought I, “as I am on my way to De Hauteroche’s office, where, at this hour, I shall, no doubt, find him.”
After waiting as patiently as possible for my “turn,” I obtained it at length; and, possessing myself of the expected letters, I sallied out into the street. I did not go direct to the office of my friend, but made a long détour—to give me time to glean the contents of my correspondence.
I arrived at length in the Rue Royale. As I had anticipated, De Hauteroche was in his office, and received me with a genuine expression of welcome.
He was differently dressed from the man I had seen—in a coat altogether unlike! There was hardly time to have changed it? It could not have been he!
“Parbleu! my friend, what’s the matter?” he inquired, observing my astonishment. “Do you perceive any change in me since we parted? I hope none for the worse, eh?”
“Answer me!” said I, without replying to his question. “How long have you had that coat on?”
“Ha! ha! what an eccentric question! ha! ha! ha! I fear, mon ami, you have left more than your heart in Saint Louis, ha! ha! ha!”
“Nay, please answer my question—how long?”
“To-day, do you mean?”
“Yes, to-day.”
“Oh! about an hour. It is my business coat. I put it on when I came into the office, about an hour ago.”
“And you have not had it off since?”
“No.”
“You have not been out of the office either?”
“Not that I am aware off, mon ami; but pray why do you make these inquiries?”
“Simply because I fancied I saw you just now.”
“Where?”
“At the Post-office.”
“Oh, no! I was not there. I never go. I always send for my letters; it is so unpleasant, squeezing through the horrid crowd.”
“I certainly saw some one wonderfully like you; and now I am convinced of what I had only suspected, that he whom I saw was that same gentleman, to whom I am indebted for your acquaintance.”
“Peste!” exclaimed the young Creole, springing to his feet, and assuming a serious countenance. “Likely enough it may be. Mon Dieu! this is intolerable. Do you know, my friend, that I am frequently mistaken for him, and he for me; and what is still worse, I have reason to believe that the fellow has, on more than one occasion, personated me. Mère de Dieu! it is not to be borne; and if I can only get proof of it—I am even now about the affair—if I can only establish the proofs, I shall effectually put a stop to it. He shall find I can handle the small-sword a little more skilfully than your unfortunate friend. Mon Dieu! it is infamous: a common spoilsman—a swindler—even worse, I have heard; and to think how my character suffers! Why no later than yesterday, would you believe it, I was joked by one of my oldest and most respected friends, for having figured at a low quadroon ball in the Faubourg Tremé! It is positively vexatious!”
Of course I assented to this denunciation, and to the necessity of some inquiry being made into the goings on of Monsieur Jacques Despard. During my winter sojourn in New Orleans, I had more than once dropped accidentally upon this last-mentioned personage, but never did I observe him in any very creditable position. It did not need the declaration of De Hauteroche, to prove to me that he was both sportsman (gambler) and swindler; but just then other matters came before my mind. I was the bearer of a pretty little billet from Olympe to Adele; and the hour had arrived in which it was proper for me to make my call and deliver it. Leaving my friend, therefore, to his books and briefs, I went off upon my errand.
I was a little puzzled at De Hauteroche’s behaviour. He must have received the letter in time to have read it before my arrival at the office; and yet I observed none of the effect that the reading of such an important document would be likely to produce. On further reflection I felt convinced that he could not have read it at all. Perhaps his messenger, who had taken it from the post-office, had not returned. Or, what was likely enough, it might not be that letter, but some other one of no importance, or more probable still, there might have been none, and I had mistaken the name. Certainly, if it were the epistle I supposed it to be, and if he had already perused it, the effect was far from what I should have expected. Of course I did not imagine he would appear in ecstasies in my presence, and all at once reveal to me the secret of his happiness; but, on the other hand, I could not account for the imperturbable coolness he had exhibited throughout our short interview—his thoughts, indeed, only occupied by vexation at the unfortunate resemblance he bore to the gambler. Of course, then, he could have had no letter—at least not one that offered him a wife and a fortune. I might have ascertained this to a certainty by simply putting a question, and some vague suspicion floating about in my mind, half prompted me to do so; but I remembered the caution which I had received from the little Madame Dardonville—besides, it was a delicate point, and I dreaded being deemed a meddler. After all, I had no doubt about the matter. His supreme happiness was still unknown to him. The messenger of glad tidings had not yet arrived. The next mail-boat would bring the precious epistle, and then—
I had entered the vine-shadowed verandah in the Rue Bourgogne. The green jalousie opened at the sound of my steps; and those beautiful brown eyes, smiling upon me through the fringework of the white curtains, carried my thoughts into a new current. Luis and his affairs were alike forgotten. I had eyes and thoughts only for Adele.