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—”