The two that I had recognised were women—ladies. They were Madame Dardonville and her daughter Olympe. The third was a man, who stood sufficiently near them to come under the same light—the glare of the Sultana’s fires—but the unexpected presence of the ladies so astounded me, that I did not see him till too late to distinguish either his form or face. I only saw that it was a man—nothing more; but, for all that, a painful suspicion—a presentiment of some horrid evil—took immediate possession of my soul; and I became at once imbued with the idea that my friends were in danger.
Gladly would I have adopted the belief that there was some error; and that what I had seen was a fancy—a vision of the brain. Certainly the glimpse I had of those fair faces—especially of the beautiful countenance of Olympe—was short and evanescent as any dream could have been; but it was too real. I saw her face well enough to recognise it—well enough even to note its expression, which I fancied to be more sad than smiling. Beyond a doubt the widow and her daughter had passed us in the Missouri Belle—strange though the circumstance might and did appear to me at the moment.
And what, after all, was there strange in it? Could it not be easily explained? Her affairs may have been set tied earlier than she expected—they should have been arranged by that time—and, without waiting for De Hauteroche, she may have formed the resolution to travel without him. The journey from Saint Louis to New Orleans is accounted nothing; and in all parts of the States ladies are accustomed to travel alone, and may do so with perfect safety and convenience.
But, then, they were not alone—at least they did not appear to be. There was the man—the man!
Some friend, perhaps, of the family? Some distant relative or retainer? Perhaps, only a domestic?
Could I have believed this, I should have escaped that feeling of uneasiness that was every moment growing upon me; but I could not. Something seemed to tell me, that the man I had seen was neither relative nor friend—but an enemy. Something seemed to whisper his name—Monsieur Jacques Despard.