“Volontiers, Monsieur,” she answered, before the others could catch their breath, “première droite et première gauche. Allons, Gaspard!” she cried, tapping the young man sharply on the shoulder, “es tu fou?”
Gaspard came to himself, flicked the pony, and they went off down the road with shouts of laughter, while Nick stood waving his hat until they turned the corner.
“Egad,” said he, “I'd take to the highway if I could be sure of holding up such a cargo every time. Off with you, Benjy, and find out where she lives,” he cried; and the obedient Benjy dropped the saddle-bags as though such commands were not uncommon.
“Pick up those bags, Benjy,” said I, laughing.
Benjy glanced uncertainly at his master.
“Do as I tell you, you black scalawag,” said Nick, “or I'll tan you. What are you waiting for?”
“Marse Dave—” began Benjy, rolling his eyes in discomfiture.
“Look you, Nick Temple,” said I, “when you shipped with me you promised that I should command. I can't afford to have the town about our ears.”
“Oh, very well, if you put it that way,” said Nick. “A little honest diversion—Pick up the bags, Benjy, and follow the parson.”
Obeying Mademoiselle's directions, we trudged on until we came to a comfortable stone house surrounded by trees and set in a half-block bordered by a seven-foot paling. Hardly had we opened the gate when a tall gentleman of grave demeanor and sober dress rose from his seat on the porch, and I recognized my friend of Cahokia days, Monsieur Gratiot. He was a little more portly, his hair was dressed now in an eelskin, and he looked every inch the man of affairs that he was. He greeted us kindly and bade us come up on the porch, where he read my letter of introduction.