Story 2, Chapter XI.
The Cheque.
De Hauteroche stood before me in an appealing attitude, and with wild impatience in his looks. I felt that I was going to give him supreme happiness—to fill his cup of bliss to the very brim. I had long ere this fathomed the secret of his heart, and I knew that he loved Olympe with a passionate ardour that he could scarcely conceal. His last visit to Saint Louis had settled that point, and though it was doubtful whether the young girl was, at the time, sufficiently forward to have felt the passion of love, I had discovered some traces of a certain tender regard she had exhibited towards him I had no doubt that she would love him—almost at sight: for to say nothing of the direction which had been given to her thoughts—both parents carefully guiding her affections in the one particular channel—there were other circumstances that would favour this result. Luis De Hauteroche was by far the handsomest gentleman she had ever seen—handsome as well as highly accomplished—and I knew that no pains had been spared to impress Olympe with this idea. He was almost certain to be beloved by her.
Concealment of what I knew, was no longer required of me. My promise to Madame Dardonville was simply to keep silent, until the letter had spoken for itself. It was clear, however, that the letter had miscarried; and it therefore became a necessity that I should declare its contents. I rather joyed at thus having it in my power to make my friend happy; and I hastened to perform the pleasant duty.
In brief detail I made known to him the nature of the ex-merchant’s will—that part of it relating to his daughter and to Luis himself.
Joy overspread the young man’s countenance as he listened; and my repetition of those interesting conditions was interrupted only by expressions of gratitude and delight.
For the rest, I knew not the precise contents of Madame Dardonville’s letter. These could only be guessed at; but the communication just now received was a good key to that which had been lost.
“What matter,” added I, “about the other having gone astray? It is certainly not very agreeable that some post-office peeper should get such an insight into one’s family affairs; but after all, it’s only a copy of the will that has been lost.”
“Oh! the will; I care nothing for that, Monsieur—not even if it were the original—the will of Olympe alone concerns me.”
“And that I promise will be also in your favour.”
“Merci, Monsieur, what a true friend you have proved! How fortunate I should have resembled Monsieur Despard! Ha! ha!”
I almost echoed the reflection—for that resemblance had been the means of introducing me to Adele.
“But come, Monsieur De Hauteroche! the letter of Madame Dardonville requires attention. You must answer the demand. You are expected in Saint Louis, to bring the ladies down to New Orleans. If I mistake not the Sultana leaves here this very evening; you must go by her.”
“And you will go with me? You perceive, Monsieur, you are invited.”
“And M’amselle De Hauteroche?”
“Oh! certainly. Adele will go too. In truth, my sister has not travelled much of late. She has only been once to Saint Louis since papa’s death. I am sure she will enjoy the trip exceedingly. And you will go, then?”
“Willingly. Your sister will need time for preparation. Shall we proceed to the Rue de Bourgogne?”
“Allons! on our way we can call at the post-office. Perhaps the missing letter is still lying there—we may yet recover it.”
“It can matter little now, I fancy; but there is no harm in trying.”
I had not much hope of success. Something whispered to me that the document was gone from the post-office, and had fallen into other hands: though of what use could it be to any one? Perhaps it had been detained by some one, in the expectation that it contained an enclosure of money—an occurrence which the loose arrangements of the American post-office rendered by no means uncommon.
I was now more than ever convinced of the correctness of my first impressions. On that morning when I visited the post-office, a letter for De Hauteroche had been asked for and taken out; and as he now informed me that he had received no letter, nor did he remember having sent any one to the office on that particular day—there was but one conclusion to be drawn. Some one, unauthorised by him, had obtained the letter—no doubt the very one in question.
The coincidence of Despard’s presence—for it must have been he whom I had mistaken for De Hauteroche—led me to other misgivings. I had not seen the person who made inquiry for the letter—the files of men in front preventing me—but judging by the time at which the spoilsman passed out at the exit end of the slip, he must have been near the delivery-window when the inquiry was made. These circumstances, taken in connection with what I already knew of this person, naturally led me to the conclusion that De Hauteroche’s letter had fallen into his hands. His motive for such a vile act I could only guess at. The hope of obtaining money, perhaps—though there might appear but slight probability of that. In truth, the affair was sufficiently inexplicable; and neither De Hauteroche nor I could arrive at any definite resolution of it at the time.
On our arriving at the post-office, a gleam of light was thrown upon the transaction.
“Has there been any letter addressed to Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche?”
The inquiry referred to a date of some days anterior.
The clerk could not answer that—indeed the question was rather an idle one. Of course, amidst the thousands of letters delivered by the official, it would have been miraculous in him to have remembered a particular one. He had no recollection of such a letter being delivered; and there was none for the address lying in the office.
“Stay—there is a letter that has just come in by an extra mail, for ‘Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche.’”
My friend eagerly grasped the document—the more eagerly that he saw upon it the stamp of the Saint Louis post-office! It was scarcely large enough to contain the copy of a will. It could hardly be that of which we were in search.
It proved not to be that, but a document of a very different character. It read thus:
“Monsieur,—The 1,000 dolls, cheque transmitted to you upon the Planters’ Bank of New Orleans, by a mistake of one of our clerics, was not crossed. It has been paid by the Bank and returned. We are anxious to know if it reached your hands safely. Please state by return mail.
“Gardette and Co,
“Bankers,
“Saint Louis,
“Mi.”
“Mystery of mysteries, Monsieur!” exclaimed De Hauteroche, gasping for breath, as he thrust the letter into my hands. “What can all this mean? I know of no thousand dollars. Never received a cheque—never expected one—know of no one in Saint Louis who should have sent it, nor for what purpose! Ho! there must be a mistake. This is not for me.”
And the speaker once more referred to the envelope. But the address was full and complete:—
“Monsieur Luis De Hauteroche,
“Avocat,
“16, Rue Royale,
“New Orleans.”
There was no other Luis De Hauteroche—no other avocat of the name. Undoubtedly the letter was for him—however little he understood its contents.
I was less puzzled than he. A gleam, or rather a flood of light, was let in upon the mysterious transaction, which to me was no longer a mystery. Whence had come the cheque I could not tell I could only surmise; and my surmise pointed to the hand of the generous widow of Dardonville. Where it had gone was unfortunately less doubtful,—for the fingers of the chevalier d’industrie were easily recognisable here. Beyond a doubt, Monsieur Despard had got the cheque; and this would account for his after inquiry at the post-office, that led to his obtaining the letter with the will. He had watched the arrival of the mails from Saint Louis, and obtained such letters as were addressed to De Hauteroche. Why he had done this at first, it would be difficult to say; but afterwards—after obtaining the money—his object would be to prevent the young lawyer from knowing it, until he could get out of the way.
In all likelihood he was now beyond reach either of accusation or conviction. The two letters which had just come to hand were of themselves evidence, that in all likelihood he was no longer near.
De Hauteroche was furious—half frantic when I imparted to him my convictions; for, although the source whence the 1,000 dollars had come, was still a mystery to him, yet there was the proof of its having been sent, and the presumption of its having been stolen.
The New Orleans police were at once put in charge of the matter; and, as no communication could possibly reach Saint Louis sooner than by the Sultana, it was resolved that we ourselves should be the bearers of the answer, and call upon the banking-house of Gardette and Co, the moment we arrived in that city.
Detectives were set upon the search for Despard, but of course only as spies—since as yet we could allege nothing stronger than suspicion against him. The espionage, however, was likely to prove unsuccessful: for up to the hour of the Sultana’s leaving—which occurred just at sunset—the sportsman’s whereabouts had not been ascertained; and the detectives, in quaint phraseology, declared their belief that the “gentleman was G.T.T.” (Gone To Texas).