She shot a look at me. She had bright little eyes like a bird's, that shone in the candlelight.
“You know him, Monsieur?”
“I heard of him in St. Louis,” I answered.
“You will meet him, no doubt,” she continued. “He is a very fine gentleman. His grandfather was Commissary-general of the colony, and he himself is a cousin of the Marquis de Saint-Gré, who has two châteaux, a house in Paris, and is a favorite of the King.” She paused, as if to let this impress itself upon me, and added archly, “Tenez, Monsieur, there is a daughter—”
She stopped abruptly.
I followed her glance, and my first impression—of claret-color—gave me a shock. My second confirmed it, for in the semi-darkness beyond the rays of the candle was a thin, eager face, prematurely lined, with coal-black, lustrous eyes that spoke eloquently of indulgence. In an instant I knew it to be that of the young man whom I had seen on the levee.
“Monsieur Auguste?” stammered Madame.
“Bon soir, Madame,” he cried gayly, with a bow; “diable, they are already at it, I see, and the punch in the bowl. I will win back to-night what I have lost by a week of accursed luck.”
“Monsieur your father has relented, perhaps,” said Madame, deferentially.
“Relented!” cried the young man, “not a sou. C'est égal! I have the means here,” and he tapped his pocket, “I have the means here to set me on my feet again, Madame.”