Story 2, Chapter X.
Another Epistle.
The hospitality of my Creole friends had not cooled in my absence, and my visits were as frequent as of yore. I had now much to tell them of. My prairie excursion had furnished me with facts—deeds upon which I could descant. It pleased me to fancy I had an attentive listener in Adele. I could make Luis listen too at times—especially when I dwelt upon the merits of Olympe. No doubt it would have flattered me to believe that Adele was a little jealous, but I could not tell. I only knew that she liked better to hear me discourse upon the wonders of prairie land, than to listen to the praises of Olympe. But Adele had much romance in her disposition, and the plumed and painted horsemen of the plains—the chivalry of modern days—almost rival in interest the steel-clad heroes of the mediaeval time—certainly they are quite as brave, and perhaps not much more barbaric.
My visits to the Rue Bourgogne were of daily recurrence. Besides the other occupation, I could not help closely regarding the behaviour of Luis. I was watching for some sign, but day after day passed without his showing any. The letter had not yet come to hand. My position was a strange one. With one word I could have made De Hauteroche supremely happy; and yet my promise hindered me from uttering that word. It was really tantalising to be thus restrained—for the pleasure of giving happiness is almost equal to that of receiving it.
A week passed, and still no word—no sign of the letter having been received; and then the half of another week without report. Two mail-packets I knew had come down from Saint Louis—for I had taken the pains to ascertain this fact—but neither brought the precious epistle.
Had Madame Dardonville not written after all? or had her letter miscarried?
The former I could not reconcile with probability, after what she had said: the latter was perfectly probable, considering the character of the American post-office, and the adventurous vagaries that sometimes occur to an American mail bag, in its transit upon the great western rivers.
Still the route from Saint Louis to New Orleans was a direct one. There was but one shipment from port to port, and where could be the risk?
I was puzzled, therefore, at the non-arrival of the letter. In truth, I was something more than puzzled. At times I felt a vague feeling of uneasiness as to its fate; and this was more definite, when I reflected on the incident that had occurred at the post-office on the morning after my return. I could not well doubt that some one asked for a letter for Luis De Hauteroche; for though the words were mumbled in a low tone, they reached my ear with sufficient distinctness. At the time I had not the shadow of a doubt about the name.
Did De Hauteroche receive a letter that morning, and from Saint Louis? For reasons given, I had never asked him, but I could no longer see any harm in putting the question. If an unimportant letter, he might not remember it; and whether or no, the question would surprise and puzzle him. But no matter. It was important I should have an answer—yes or no. I needed that to resolve a doubt—a dark suspicion that was shaping itself in my mind.
I came to the determination to call upon him: and at once put the interrogatory—outré as it might seem.
I was preparing to sally forth from my hotel chamber, when a somewhat impetuous knock at the door announced an impatient visitor. It was the man I was about to seek—Luis De Hauteroche himself.
I saw that he was strangely excited about something. “My friend,” he exclaimed on entering, “what can this mean? I have just had a letter from Saint Louis—from Madame Dardonville—and for the life of me I cannot comprehend it. It speaks of a will—of conditions—of Olympe—of strange contingencies. Mon Dieu! I am perplexed. What is it? You have lately seen Madame. Perhaps you can explain it? Speak, friend! can you?”
While giving utterance to this incoherent speech, De Hauteroche had drawn out a letter, and thrust it into my hand. I opened and read:—
“Mon cher Luis,—Since my letter, accompanying the copy of my lamented husband’s will, I find that my duties as administratrix will detain us in Saint Louis a week longer than I had anticipated. If you have not started, therefore, before receiving this, I wish to suggest a change in our programme—that is, instead of coming alone, you should bring Adele along with you, and we can all return together. Perhaps your young English friend would be of the party; though, from the anxiety which he exhibited at the first appearance of frost here, perhaps he thinks our Saint Louis climate too cold for him. He shall be welcome notwithstanding.
“You could come by the ‘Sultana,’ which I see by the New Orleans papers is to sail on the 25th. Come by her if possible, as she is our favourite boat, and I should wish to go back in her.
“Yours sincerely,
“Emilie Dardonville.”
“P.S.—Remember, Luis, that your choice is free, and though I shall be proud to have you for my son-in-law, I shall put no constraint upon Olympe. She knows the conditions of her father’s will, and I have no fear of her desiring to controvert what was with him a dying wish. I am well assured that her heart is still her own; and since you have always been the favourite friend of her childhood, I think I might promise you success as a suitor. But in this, and everything else relating to the conditions of the will, you must act, dear Luis, as your heart dictates. I know your honourable nature, and have no fear you will act wrongly.”
“E.D.”
By the time I had finished reading, De Hauteroche had become more collected.
“When did you last hear from Madame Dardonville?” I asked.
“About a month ago—only once since the letter announcing our friend’s death.”
“And your sister—has she had a letter since?”
“None—except the note brought by yourself from Olympe.”
“That could not be the letter referred to here. There was no copy of a will?”
“I never heard of such a thing. This is the first intimation I have had, that Monsieur Dardonville had made a will; and the postscript both surprises and perplexes me. Madame Dardonville speaks of conditions—of Olympe being bound by some wish of her father! What conditions? What wish? Monsieur, for heaven’s sake, explain to me if you can?”
“I can!”